


Voices Carry

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifth story in the Treatment series. House continues to work with Sarah and Gene as memories from the past haunt him. Some fluff, some humor, and angst. AU to S6/general canon storyline. Now revised with expanded chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

_February 15th_

"Greg." The soft voice slides into his mind, draws him away from sleep. "Come on, time to wake up. Have to do inspection today."

_("Greg, wake up. You mustn't keep your father waiting. He wants to talk to you before he leaves.")_

He pushes deeper into the pillow. "Didn' do anything . . ."

"What didn't you do?"

He opens one eye, fully awake in an instant. "Nice try."

"Oh well," Sarah says. "I made breakfast."

He rolls on his side, rubs the deep ache in his thigh. "Pee first."

She has to keep an eye on him, he knows that, but he can't resist the chance to flash her as he pulls down his sweats. "I _am_ married," she says, her tone dryer than the Sahara. "Am I supposed to be impressed by the sight of male equipment? Why do men think that's such a thrill for us?"

"They call you shrink for a reason," he complains, and massages his thigh with his free hand.

"Breakthrough?" Her question is a simple inquiry, nothing more. He nods and moves to the sink to wash up. After he uses the towel he drops it on the floor just to see Sarah roll her eyes. "You didn't flush," she points out. Greg gives her a hard stare.

"You'll do it later."

It's difficult to eat. His appetite seems to have taken a permanent hike, though everything tastes delicious. He manages enough coffee, toast and scrambled eggs to take his meds. He doesn't have to ask at the end of the meal, Sarah simply hands him the bottles. He gets what he needs, shows her the pills, and that's that. It's still a humiliation, but he knows she's done her best to make it as easy as possible for him, and he is grateful though he'd never say so.

He doesn't envy her the inspection today. It's been about a week since the last one, and he's let things . . . accumulate. His room is truly filthy. So is the bathroom. He has kept his side of the office neat, but that's because it's the office. He works better if it's cluttered but clean underneath.

Sarah starts the process in silence, her expression inscrutable. Greg watches as she wades through piles of dirty laundry, half her casual table service, and bed linens that haven't seen the washer in three weeks. It is under those sheets at the foot of the bed that she finds the first Atomic Fireball candy--unwrapped, of course. She removes it from its spot and looks down at it, then at him. He raises his brows but says nothing. It takes her only a second to understand the game. Her shoulders square and her green eyes brighten with the glint of challenge. He can almost hear her count _three . . . two . . . one_ in her mind before she pops the candy into her mouth. He can't suppress a grimace—hell if _he_ would do that!—and she grins at him. Then the cinnamon hits. He can see the flush spread over her fair skin like a stain. To his chagrin however, she doesn't spit it out. Instead she tucks the jawbreaker between her cheek and gum like a wad of chewing tobacco, gives him a mock-disdainful look, and goes back to work.

She finds all three of the Fireballs, each one hidden in a spot guaranteed to induce nausea in anyone else. By the time she has finished the office her forehead is beaded with sweat and she's had to blow her nose repeatedly, but she's eaten every single candy without comment. It is an epic win by anyone's standards. After she checks the carpet, always the last place she looks, she gives him a deep bow, flips her ponytail over her shoulder when she straightens, and walks off in smug triumph.  _I'll have to try something she isn't used to next time,_ he thinks, and heads into the kitchen to catch Sarah as she chugs a glass of milk and wipes her scarlet face with a paper towel.

"That was not funny!" she gasps when he can't help but snicker. "I'll have to douse my innards with Lysol for a week to get rid of all the cooties!"

"As long as you don't steal the wheels off my bike," he says, heavy on the snark. She wads up the paper towel, throws it at him and laughs. The musical sound eases something deep inside him, as always.

He declines lunch because he knows she has a pot roast with vegetables in the oven for tonight's dinner. Instead he goes to the office. This is when his need for new patients and differential diagnoses is most acute, during long, dreary afternoons when it's quiet and there's nothing to distract him. It is also the time when he struggles with the urge to find a way to get numb. The idea is always there, just below his thoughts; it tugs at him the way a riptide pulls an incautious swimmer out to sea.

The bundle of letters Sarah found still sits next to his laptop. He’s set them aside for an emergency, when the need for distraction gets so bad he won't be able to push it away any longer. He's not there yet—close, but not quite. Instead he goes around to Sarah's desk. She has a somewhat smaller version of his Eames chair, a little low for his long legs, but still just as comfortable. Greg settles himself into it and checks out her latest project. There are several books stacked next to her laptop— _Reading Egyptian Art_ , _A Concise Dictionary of Middle Egyptian_ , _Gardiner's Manual of Egyptian Grammar_ , and what appears to be a handmade journal. He flips it open and there in Sarah's neat penmanship are dozens of glyphs, all defined, annotated and indexed. He pages through it, impressed by the sheer amount of work represented here. It must have taken her years to create. But what is she doing with all this?

"It's tough to resist puzzles even if they're in another language and alphabet, isn't it?" Sarah's quiet voice holds a smile. She moves past him to pull his chair to the side of her desk and plunks down with a sigh. She looks tired.

"Checking up on me." His voice holds an edge.

"I was gonna see if Gene sent an email," she says, unruffled by his attitude.

"I take it he hasn't caught the plague yet," he says, and feels an unwelcome guilt at the flare of worry in Sarah's eyes, concealed when she looks away.

"Not yet," she says. There's a brief silence.

"You're sending the reply in hieroglyphs. A little on the labor-intensive side." He tosses the journal onto the desk.

"I'm working on a grammar exercise and there's a section that has me stuck." Sarah tips the chair back a bit. "It's tough learning a dead language."

" _Disce pati,_ " he says, just to see if she knows her Latin. She takes a moment to translate, then gives him a wry look.

"Thanks a lot."

"So . . . this fascination with impractical grammars," he says. He picks up a pen and balances it on the tips of both index fingers. "You often felt like you were speaking an unknown language during your childhood." He glances at her to see if she'll take the bait. Sarah raises her brows but says nothing. "Throw an imaginative, intelligent little girl into a family whose members were the inspiration for the original version of _The Last House on the Left_ , and she thinks she's a changeling because she doesn't understand them at all, can't get anyone to listen to her . . ." He trails off.

"Do go on," she says, clearly amused. "This is most entertaining."

"I detect a modicum of skepticism."

"You hope I'll think you're projecting and dump all this bunk into your case notes," she says. "Then you can search the office, find my file and see what I'm thinking about you. Well, you're doomed to disappointment because I'm only recording vital stats."

_("I have to keep a list for your father, dear. You must learn there are consequences for your actions.")_

"Greg." Her voice is quiet, but it pulls him back into the present. "It's a timeline of progress so when the big guns need evidence for evaluation, they have it."

"Progress." He looks away. "Because suicide attempts are a great leap forward."

"Is that what it was?" It's a fair question, but he still growls in impatience.

"You had to make me vomit!"

"Not a clinical marker for suicidal intent," she says. "You're the only one who knows what you meant by that action."

"Oh, that's so clever," he says. "I ain't talkin' no more, copper. Stop shining those bright lights in my face."

"I have it down as an overdose," she says. "If it was more and you want to tell me, I'm listening."

"Not even you can spin an attempt as progress."

"Let me worry about that." He says nothing more. After a moment she opens her journal and pulls up something on her laptop. Silence falls in the office, but it's not awkward or tense. She didn’t lie; she's ready to take him at his word.

"I . . . wasn't thinking," he says after a while. "It wasn't premeditated."

Sarah nods. "Okay." She glances past the monitor. "Wanna help me out here?"

"I don't know anything about Middle Egyptian," he points out.

"I need a fresh set of eyes. There's a sign that I can't quite decipher . . ."

When darkness falls they go into the kitchen for dinner. Greg takes a cold beer out of the fridge as Sarah puts the pot roast on the counter. It smells delicious, fragrant with garlic and thyme, onions and beef; he fills his plate to make the cook happy and pushes the food around, as he tries to eat.

"How bad is the nausea?" Sarah asks. He shakes his head.

"Nonexistent. Just not hungry." He spears a chunk of meat on his fork and contemplates it. "Dead cow," he says. "Kinda gross, eating something with more than one stomach and a uterus big enough to hold a Yugo."

"I had my arm inside a cow's hootch once," Sarah says. "Breech birth, and the calf wouldn't turn. I was trying to tie a rope around its legs when a contraction hit. Just about broke my shoulder."

"Cool." He twirls the fork and tries to muster up the desire to take a bite.

"If you want something else, there's other stuff in the icebox," she says. He smiles a little at the old-fashioned word, but tries again and succeeds this time. After a few moments he can keep going, if he makes it a mechanical action—pick up a mouthful, chew the food, swallow. Soon his plate is empty.

_("Finish that last bite, Greg. No whining, or I'll give you something to whine about.")_

"Lima beans," Sarah says. He gives her a sharp look. "When I was bad, I got a cereal bowl full of the damn things in cold salty water. I had to sit at the table until every last one was gone. If I threw up, it meant starting all over again." She snitches a carrot from the platter and dips it in gravy. "Sometimes when my mom wanted to have some fun, she would deliberately make me barf so I had to face another batch. You will never find a single lima in my kitchen."

"Hah. Unresolved issues," he says, and sips his beer.

"I hated them before they became an object of torment," she says. "Besides, someone once told me having a neurosis or two is normal. This one works for me." That’s a joke, but he can hear the truth behind the humor.

"Better be careful who you take advice from," he says, but he still feels pleased.

"I'm not worried," she says. "I trust my source." She gives him a quick smile. "How about some dessert?"

The baked apples with cream hold a little more appeal, so he takes his meds between mouthfuls. "Gonna watch some tv," he says as she cleans up.

"I was going to ask if you'd help me out," Sarah says, and rolls her eyes when he leers at her. "We're having a _ceilidh_ on St. Pat's at the fire hall."

"Give me a good reason to care.”

"I need someone to practice with. A pianist. I have the charts," she says when he is silent. "If you don't want to, that's okay. I can get—"

"What you can do is stop babbling," he snaps. "Forget it."

He sees the disappointment and worse, the hurt in her eyes, just a flash before she turns away. "Okay," she says. Her acceptance goads him more than recrimination or a reproach.

"It's a whole month away," he says, still impatient. "You're good enough to not worry until the week before."

"Thanks." When she speaks again she sounds normal, no reproach or anger at all. "Hockey's on tonight. Flyers versus Devils. There'll be high-sticking galore."

After a few moments Greg leaves the kitchen while she cleans up. When Sarah comes into the living room a short time later, the fire's built up, he's pulled two chairs around, and his keyboard is plugged in, ready to go. She stops, surprise plain in her face.

"You said you had charts," he says, and looks away.

"I'll get them," she says. As she passes by him she says quietly "Thank you, Greg."

"Hurry up," he mutters. "I'm not losing the whole game so you can worry about the chords for 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling'."

When she puts the books on the seat next to him, he is pleased to find there's little to no Tin Pan Alley drivel. It's almost all the real deal, some of it even in Gaelic.

"My grandmother loved the old music," Sarah says. She tunes the guitar with a practiced hand. "It was about the only thing we had in common."

_("Real men don't play piano all day long, Gregory. I don't care if you have a lesson later on. Go outside and finish raking the lawn. You might build a few muscles to match the ones in your fingers, you wimp.")_

His hands come down on the keys in discord. "Dammit!" He sends a glare at Sarah but she says nothing, she doesn’t even look at him. "At least you had that much," he sneers before he can stop himself.

"You didn't," she says softly.

"No I didn't and that's all you get! Stop prying at me, I—I don't—I can't—" He gets up, ready to flee.

"Greg." He stands there like the coward he is, unable to go, unable to stay, trapped by the voices of the past in his head. "Whoever used your love of music as a weapon to hurt you, it was wrong." The words offer a rational path, a way out of the pain. He struggles for a few moments, then gives in.

"I keep hearing their damn voices—remembering the things they said . . ." He stares at the keyboard. "Everything makes me hear them, even waking up in the morning. I can't get away from them."

"Tell me what they say." She makes it sound so sensible. He can't help a bitter laugh.

"So you can put it in your case notes."

"No," she says. "Nothing you tell me gets written down. The only thing any committee will be interested in is if you're a good risk for surgery, or you're fit to get your license back. My notes are general and indicate progress. Nothing more." She pauses. "When you've had the surgery and you're reinstated, you can burn my notebook."

"Yeah, because throwing a computer on the fire is so much fun," he says.

"I'm not keeping a digital file. It's all on paper, and it's written in Middle Egyptian." He swings his gaze over to her in astonishment.  "Just a precaution," she says. A smile tugs at her lips. He stares at her. Then the humor of the situation gets to him. He sits down and fights not to laugh.

"I call you Neferhotep," she says. "It's the equivalent of Joe in that culture. I’m Seshat."

"The goddess of scribes and record keeping," he says. "And the passage of time." She nods. He draws a deep breath and closes his eyes.

"My father hated my music . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

_February 26th_

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed. She felt tired, and ragged around the edges. It had been a long day, cold and snowy with blustery winds and a raw dampness in the air even a good fire and a warm kitchen couldn't dispel. She rubbed her arm and glanced at the bathroom. A hot shower would help, but she was too tired to bother.

She had just put on a comfortably disreputable pair of flannel bottoms and one of her husband's tee shirts when her cell phone rang. She snatched it off the charger and hoped it was Gene. The caller ID said otherwise: 'Wilson, James E'. With some hesitation she answered. "Hey Jim."

"Sarah." He sounded constrained, uncertain, and her heart warmed toward him a little.

"How are you?" she asked, and folded back the bedclothes.

"Worried." And angry too, if that clipped tone was anything to go by. Sarah sat up a bit straighter.

"What's wrong?"

"There's no easy way to do this, so I'll just say it." He paused. "I think House is diagnosing patients."

Sarah frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"There's a website in his name—two of his fellows started it a couple of years ago, but they shut it down, after--after he pranked them . . . I thought it was still offline, until someone came to me with evidence that it's active again."

"Who gave you the goods?" she asked. Jim hesitated.

"I don't want to tell you."

"It came from Cuddy," she guessed. He was silent. "How did she find out?"

"Sare . . ."

"Are you really this obtuse or do you work at it?" she asked. Her temper stirred but she kept a firm hand on it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Don't you find it even a _little_ suspicious that Cuddy's the one who passes this information on to you?"

"You think this is a setup." Jim sounded accusatory.

Sarah snorted. "Damn straight I do. Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, what else can it be?"

"We could settle this by asking House," Wilson said. "If you let me listen in, I can tell you if he's lying."

Sarah counted to ten. Her incipient headache grew a little. "I won't do that," she said at last.

"You're protecting him," Jim said. "He's got you feeling sorry—"

"I do _not_ feel sorry for him," Sarah said. "I'll reserve that emotion for you, because you're doing such a great job of bein’ a complete tool."

"This is _exactly_ the kind of stupid stunt House would pull!" Jim snapped. "You know it, but you won't admit it because you're—you've fallen in love with him or some other idiotic notion, I don't know—"

"Oh my god," Sarah said softly. "You're jealous."

Jim said nothing for a moment. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are." She drew in a startled breath as comprehension struck. "It wasn't Lucas who called Blythe House. It was _you_." The enormity of the double betrayal struck her, a swift, unexpected slap to the face. "How could you do that?"

"Sare—"

"Do you have _any_ idea how to be a real friend?" she asked. She struggled to keep the hurt out of her voice. "Because based on current available evidence, I don't think you do."

"You have no idea what you're talking about! I've put up with House's nasty little games for years!"

"That may be true, but you're not above a few manipulative moves of your own. You called me last October, desperate to get some help for Greg because you thought he might be on the edge of another breakdown. Now you're more than happy to work with Lucas to destroy any further chance Greg has at finding some healing. Why is that, Jim? Why did you tell Blythe her son was being brainwashed? You knew he wasn't ready to see her, but you forced the issue anyway."

"I never—I never said that! I—I didn't know!" He stammered, a sure sign he felt outraged, guilty or cornered. She figured it was all three at this point. "Why won't you tell House so we can settle this here and now?"

"Because that would be a betrayal of my faith in him. I trust him. I _don't_ trust you," she said.

" _What?"_

Sarah rubbed her right temple, and wished the ache behind her eyes would disappear. "Maybe you don't like the fact that Greg is moving away from needing you to enable him. Maybe you're feeling jealous because he's getting healthier, and you're not the one administering the healing. You always did put Joan of Arc to shame in that area. I don't know exactly what's going on with you. That's for you to work on with your analyst and I strongly suggest you do so. What you need to understand right now is that I will ask Greg tomorrow about this, and if he says he's not diagnosing patients, I'll believe him."

"You're a fool," Jim said. Bitterness sharpened his words. "Cuddy said once that he makes everyone worse for being around him. She was right."

"And yet you keep him in your life. Ever stop to think about why that is?" Sarah fought the urge to reach through the phone and shake the man.

"You think he's done nothing wrong? That he's a saint?" Jim was livid, she knew that strident tone all too well. "I've got news for you, he's not!"

"I never believed he was. No one is perfect, including you." She wanted to growl in frustration. "But the issue here, on the surface anyway, is this: who do you trust, Jim? Cuddy and her boyfriend, or your supposed best friend? If it's the former, you're the fool, not me."

"Fine—just—just fine! I'll find out who's been using that website and when it turns out to be House, you'll both have a lot of explaining to do! I came to you to give you a heads-up—obviously that was a mistake!"

"Do what you think you have to," Sarah said, but she spoke to dead air. Slowly she hung up the phone and got into bed, but sleep was impossible. After twenty minutes she gave up, put on her bathrobe, and headed downstairs.

The website was easy enough to find; she typed Greg's name into the search engine and chose the most likely candidate from the many entries returned. It was indeed a diagnostic site, and active. She didn't register, only checked the message board and the testimonials. It didn't take her long to figure out that whoever wrote as Gregory House was not a diagnostician and probably not even a physician. The imposter took only the most basic cases, and the information offered could have come from any medical information website.

"That was quite a conversation." Greg stood in the doorway. He frowned at her. "I heard you bitching out Wilson all the way downstairs." Sarah took a deep breath.

"We have a problem," she said quietly.

He said nothing as she explained the situation. When she finished silence filled the room. "He's right," Greg said at last. "You have no reason to trust me."

Sarah's heart sank. "Are you saying you did this?"

"What if I told you I haven't touched a diagnosis since last May." He challenged her now, his eyes a brilliant blue.

"I'd believe you," she said.

"But you already checked the website to see if Wilson was right."

"I checked to see if it was up and running," she said. "It is. Who could be doing this?"

"No one aside from me.” The mockery in his tone stung her.

"If you say you aren't, I believe you," she said with some impatience. "So think! Who else could it be?"

Greg stared at her, looked away. "Any one of the fellows. Could be Taub. He was in on it with Kutner almost from the start."

She shook her head. "It's someone else."

"You only met him once."

"He's not the type to have that much _chutzpah_ ," she said. Greg snorted but didn't disagree. "Anyway, I don't think it's a doctor."

She waited while he checked the site on his own laptop. His long fingers danced over the keys. Eventually he sat back. "You're right," he said. "It's not a professional, unless they're handing out degrees at Hooters." He raised his eyebrows. "They’d all be gynecologists, at least on their lunch hour."

Sarah sighed and rubbed her eyes. "I hate to promote conspiracies, but could Lucas have done this?" When Greg didn't answer her she looked at him. He wore an expression she'd seen before, only this was no positive epiphany.

"If it's Douglas," he said, "I can't do anything except close the site." One corner of his mouth lifted in a humorless smile. "Damn. That's a potential five figures of extra income a month down the toidy." He hesitated, and the half-smile faded. "If I tell Cuddy she'll break up with him sooner or later, but she'll never forgive me for forcing her hand. I don't tell anyone, he gets to keep on doing whatever he wants, and he knows I know." He lifted his gaze to hers. The unspoken pain there made Sarah’s exasperation with his ex-coworkers grow.

"Damn that little weasel." She wound a curl around her finger and tugged on it.

"I'm so deeply impressed by those profound professional insights of yours," Greg said. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"He's arrogant, he's clever, he's ruthless . . . and he's young," she said after a few moments of silence.

"Hmm." Greg tilted his head. "Continue."

"He doesn't have the experience to know that revenge is a dish best served ice-cold. He's also impulsive. Give him enough time, and he won't be able to resist messing with his perfect plan."

Greg considered it. "So we sit tight and do nothing."

"For now," Sarah said. "Let him think he's won." She yawned and rubbed her arm. "Can you bide your time?"

"Age and treachery versus youth and skill," he said, and offered her a slight smile that didn't touch the misery in his eyes. Sarah nodded.

"Will you be able to sleep tonight?" she asked, careful to make it nothing more than a question.

"I'd better work on this." He indicated the laptop. As she stood he said "Wilson's right to warn you about trusting me."

"To state the blatantly obvious, Jim has control issues," she said. "I can make my own decisions without his guidance. An amazing but true fact."

"That's it. That’s all you got. No tantalizing hints about sexual perversions, deviant behavior, porn tucked away under the bed in alphabetical order. I’m disappointed."

She only smiled and went into the kitchen, where she made a slice of peanut butter toast, added a few cookies to the plate and brewed two cups of hot sweet decaf tea. When she returned to the office Greg looked at her over the top of the monitor, his gaze sharp.

"I don't need help. And I don't like tea."

"I know you don't," she said, and set the plate next to his keyboard along with a cup of tea. "But maybe you could use some company."

He glanced at the food, then back at the screen. "Nope."

"Well fine," she said. "I won't be able to sleep for a couple of hours, so I might as well clean out my inbox."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, because that's not some transparent attempt to babysit me in case I freak out."

Sarah sipped her tea. "That isn't the reason."

"Let's see . . . that leaves being an insufferable busybody."

"Um, _yeah_ ," she said. "I don't wanna wait till morning to find out what happens."

Greg snorted and took the toast. "Whatever." He bit into it and his eyes widened. "What the hell is this?"

"Peanut butter toast," Sarah said. "I lived on it in college—it's quick, easy and a good source of protein, fats and starches. Don't tell me a PBJ freak like you has never had it before."

He ignored her, but to her satisfaction the toast disappeared quickly. He even drank some of the tea as well, and polished off a couple of cookies. While he worked she checked her inbox, answered some emails, sent off a few more, trolled a couple of favorite websites, and resisted the urge to ask how things were going.

"Done," Greg said an hour later. He looked tired, his features tight with discouragement. He shut down the laptop and leaned back in his chair, rubbed his thigh in a slow, distracted manner that told Sarah far more than words ever could just how upset he was. She didn't say anything though, only turned off her own computer, gathered up the plate and now-empty cups, and took them to the kitchen. She entered the living room on her return to the office to see Greg slip into his bedroom and close the door behind him.

She made the rounds to shut off lights and bank fires before she went upstairs to her own bed once more. She was absolutely sodden with exhaustion now, her headache worse, but it was all in a good cause. She shucked off her bathrobe, fell into bed and was asleep almost before she turned out the light.


	3. Chapter 3

James sat on the edge of the couch and rubbed tired eyes. He felt bruised after the phone call with Sarah; disagreements with people often had that effect, as if their angry words were actual physical blows against his flesh. A foolish idea, but still true. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothed it into place.

_That was a disaster. I can't believe we fought over this stupid issue. It's like Sarah's turning into one of my ex-wives. God, what a terrifying thought! She's one of the few women in my past who can actually say she still likes me without resort to lies. That's probably not true anymore now though._

After his argument with Sarah he had paced the living room, too upset to go back to the movie he'd rented—some forgettable chick flick he'd promised a patient he'd watch. It didn’t matter that the patient died two months ago; he’d made a promise. But now the night stretched out before him, full of anxiety and bad dreams. And the whole thing had started with a call from Cuddy.

("Doctor Goldman needs to know that her patient is pulling a fast one. I have it from a reputable source that he's using his website to diagnose patients." Cuddy sounded both irritated and tired—her usual state, but even more than usual lately.  It was clear all was not well in her world, on both the personal and professional side.

"So why don't you call her?" James asked, though he’d already known the answer.

"She's your friend. God knows why you'd claim her as one, but that's your business. My main interest is in protecting the hospital from lawsuits." Cuddy gave a mirthless laugh. "Endless job that it is, even with House gone."

"Gone? As in . . . unemployed? Princeton-Plainsboro can’t afford to lose him or Diagnostics.”

"There _is_ no Diagnostics department—at least right now there isn’t. Anyway, House doesn’t have a department to be head of now, and there’s a good possibility he’ll be terminated by the board without my consent. There’s only so much I can do, unless he decides to quit jerking everyone’s chain and get back to work.” She sighed. “Look, I know he needs help, dammit. Just tell Goldman to keep an eye on him and get him ready to get back to Princeton as soon as possible.")

 _Neither of us bothered to check the website personally._ James grimaced. _House would kick my ass for making such a massive mistake._ He got to his feet. _At least I can fix that._

Half an hour later he sat in front of the monitor, and fought back anger as he re-read the entries. No way had House written any of these diagnoses. A first-year medical student could have done a better job. This was a malicious prank at least and criminal negligence at worst, yet he'd believed Cuddy without hesitation, even though he knew Lucas had already slapped at House twice through her. _And by extension, through me too._ The knowledge that the younger man had banked successfully on his knee-jerk reaction made James squirm.

 _When did I start expecting the worst from House without even bothering to talk to him about things?_ From the beginning of their—whatever this was, friendship never really seemed like the right word, it was incomplete somehow--he'd scolded, lectured, interrogated, and sometimes lost his temper, and none of it had made much, if any, difference in the other man’s behavior. House chose a course of action and pursued it, consequences be damned. Part of James admired that single-minded determinism; another part was appalled by the sheer quantity of collateral damage it caused.

But if he were to be honest, what really drove him crazy was House’s attitude. The man went out of his way to make a serious discussion impossible, unless it suited some nefarious purpose. Even worse, he rarely asked for help of any kind; when he was forced into a request for assistance, he still tended to shove it away. And he lied without a quiver, when it suited him to do so. In fact House was a good liar—no discernible tells, no attempt to appear sincere or honest; he just dumped the untruth and went on his way. Still, over the years his general pattern had become a bit more predictable. James had learned that if he pushed in certain ways, he could get something that resembled honesty. It took a willingness to endure endless humiliation and mockery, but then he was used to that sort of thing.

Given all of that, this behavior hadn't fit any model of response James had come to expect from his friend, yet he'd assumed it was in character anyway. _And with that assumption we caused a total clusterfuck._ _House would never allow sloppy diagnoses to be foisted off on patients, especially in his name. He works hard not to get involved, but he also doesn't give anything less than his absolute best._ James stared at the webpage, heartsick. _Sarah accused me of jealousy . . . maybe she's right, I don't know. I should talk with my therapist about this._ He glanced at the date/time display. _Shit, it's after eleven . . . no way. He's already in bed._ He still debated over a call for another few minutes or so, then gave up and made a note to do it first thing in the morning. It would still be inconvenient for them both, but not nearly as much as it would be right now . . . James frowned.

_Maybe I'd better wait until Monday. The man deserves his weekends off. Besides, I know what it's like to have patients cut into your free time. I'll call Monday when I can fit it in._

_Well, maybe not. That’s take-in day. Too many new admissions. I can't even get out of the office until the afternoon, and if we're really loaded up with patients, not until evening. Tuesday would be better._

_Tuesday isn't good either though. It's always a heavy surgery schedule and I'll have post-op rounds from the time I get in until I leave. The only time I'll have to myself is my lunch date with Cuddy, and neither one of us will give that up, it's practically the only chance we have to talk about something besides paperwork. Wednesday . . . pretty much the same as Tuesday. Wait—my assistant said something about a potluck lunch for someone who’s going on maternity leave. Need to make a note to bring something in. I should do that more often anyway. The cafeteria hiked their prices again. Even without House making me pay for his food, it's still ridiculously expensive._

_Thursday would work . . . damn, not this week. I've got that consult at Jeff, and Mrs. Shepard asked me to sit in when she talks to her ex's proxy._

_Friday . . . yes. No conflicts, just paperwork barring any emergencies . . . I'll call then. If I have time. No, I'll_ make _time. Okay. Friday then. That's good. That'll work. I'll do it._

He jotted a note on the appropriate desk blotter calendar space and circled it in yellow highlighter, then began to shut down the apartment down for the night. He moved slowly through his usual routine: a last round to check locks and windows, into the kitchen to make sure the tap didn’t drip, the pilot light on the stove was lit and there was a post-it stuck to the fridge about Wednesday's lunch. Then off to the living room to put the remote in its spot by the new _TV Guide_ on the coffee table next to the recliner, and finally into the bathroom to remove his clothes, sort everything into the appropriate hampers, and take a ten minute shower, five minutes of which was occupied by an attempt to loosen tight shoulder and back muscles with the pulse setting on the hand-held shower head.

"I don't know what to do," he said to Amber later as he lay in bed, one arm curled under his pillow. The quiet darkness around him should have felt peaceful, but instead it closed in on him somehow, a sensation he’d always hated. "Sarah will probably never forgive me for this." He sighed and pushed away guilt at the memory of his call to Blythe House. He'd had to do that, whatever Sarah said. "I just . . . I wanted the best outcome for everyone, as usual. No one ever understands that." He closed his eyes. "Wish you were here, love. Miss you so much. 'night."

He was on the edge of sleep when an idea came to him: Chase. The younger man might be agreeable to a bit of reconnaissance, with the right motivation. _I’ll talk to him in the morning,_ James thought, and felt an odd sense of normalcy settle over him. He took it with him into the darkness. 


	4. Chapter 4

_February 27th_

When Greg comes out of his bedroom, it is to find the downstairs area deserted. There’s no fragrance of coffee and breakfast from the kitchen, no sound of activity or voices from the office, no washer or dryer at work on laundry, not even the radio. There is only silence.

He takes a shower and gets dressed, dumps his dirty clothes in the wheeled hamper Sarah bought for him the week before, adds in the plates and glasses, and hauls them into the kitchen. The inspection-day prank is long since over and his room reeks, something he does not enjoy in the least.

The kitchen is pristine, peaceful in the morning light. Nothing has been touched since the night before. With a frown he pulls his cane from the hamper, abandons the laundry, and checks the driveway from his window. Minnie Lou sits in her usual place, so Sarah is still in the house.

An unwelcome sense of apprehension fills him as he makes his way upstairs one slow, cautious step at a time. The door to Sarah and Gene's room is cracked open, but even if it wasn't he'd still go in. He didn't make the privacy rules.

Sarah is in bed asleep. She lies on her side, frizzy auburn curls spread over the pillow.

_(His mother lies on the bed, shoes kicked off and the sheet pulled in a tangle over the lower half of her body, though she is fully clothed. She snores softly, her light brown hair tousled, completely unlike her usual tidy wash-and-set 'do. He dares to reach out and shake her._

" _Mom. Wake up."_

 _It takes several tries, but she finally rouses and peers at him. Her gaze is unfocused; she looks a little confused._ " _Wh . . . what?"_

" _Are you okay? You're sleeping in the middle of the day again."_

_She closes her eyes. "'m'fine. Do laundry, Greg. Needs t'be done."_

" _Mom . . ."_

" _Do it . . . or . . . tell your father."_

_He stares at her. After a moment his bewilderment gives way to a hot resentment edged with resignation. Slowly he turns away and closes the door behind him, doesn’t care if it makes a loud noise. She won't hear it anyway.)_

Greg can tell Sarah's ill; her face is flushed, her breathing a bit labored. He goes into the bathroom and roots around in the medicine cabinet over the sink, retrieves a digital thermometer. When he comes back and sits next to her, it is to find she is awake. Her eyes are fever-bright but she recognizes him, though she looks embarrassed at her vulnerable condition.

"Don't talk," he says. "Just open your mouth." When she obeys he pops the thermometer in and raises his brows at her. "Wow. If I'd known you were this easy I would’ve hit on you a long time ago."

She doesn't even roll her eyes, just closes them. He picks up her wrist and takes her pulse. It's a little fast, but more or less normal. After a few moments the thermometer beeps. The reading is 101.5.

"It's official, you're sick," he says. "Stay down, stay hydrated, and see you in a few days." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye to see how she takes his advice.

"Wash your hands," she says. Her soft voice is hoarse, barely audible. Greg gives an impatient sigh.

"And you accuse Wilson of being a martyr. You're perfectly willing to let me abandon you with nothing to say but 'wash your hands'. I expected a witty rejoinder at least."

"I'll be fine." Her breath catches on the last word and she coughs hard. When the spasm stops he says,

"Yeah, I can see that. You're an _idiot_."

She says nothing further, only rolls away from him and makes an ineffectual attempt to pull the covers up over her shoulders.

"Who would have thought it?" he says, secretly amused. "You're a bad patient."

Sarah's response is to curl in on herself. The tee shirt she has on, clearly one of Gene's, has slipped and some of her upper right back shows through the stretched-out neck. His amusement fades when he sees faint silver scars on her fair skin. He knows those marks all too well, because he has some of them himself. _Belt_ , he thinks, and feels a little shudder deep within. Aloud he says "It'll be easier for you to manage things if you come downstairs." Without further speech he rises and limps off.

Half an hour later she appears on the stairway wrapped in the comforter. She grips the banister as she moves slowly down the steps. Greg sees her out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to watch a movie. She says nothing as she passes him, only crawls onto the couch, pulls a cushion into place beneath her head and lies down. Huddled under the thick quilt, she looks about five years old.

A short time later he goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. While it heats he rummages through the cupboards and finds a box of cherry jello. It is a simple matter to make the gelatin according to the instructions; he pours some of it into a mug, puts the rest in a bowl and refrigerates it, takes a small hand towel, soaks it with cool water and wrings it out, then returns to the living room. He puts everything on the stand next to the couch and pulls his chair next to Sarah.

"Sit," he says. She does as he asks and takes the mug he offers her.

"Hot jello," he says. "Vodka shots are better, but I'm not wasting perfectly good alcohol on a sicko."

It's hard for her to swallow, she flinches each time she has to do it, but again she says nothing. When she's done he palpates the glands under her jawline, his touch gentle. They're swollen but not hard, a good sign. When she’s finished the drink she lies down. He can see she is exhausted by even this small effort. He puts the towel on her forehead and brings the comforter up to her shoulders.

"Don't get any stupid ideas about dragging your ass off the couch to do chores." He takes her wrist in his fingers, counts her pulse. "Stay put and rest."

She doesn't even argue with him. Greg frowns as she closes her eyes and slips into sleep.

By evening her temperature is up to 102.3. It's still within the average range of fever spikes for something simple like the flu, but he keeps a close eye on her all the same. She drinks the tea he gives her and manages a few bites of the chilled jello, but it's quite clear she is incapable of anything but simple existence.

While she sleeps he stumps up the stairs and gets a couple of pillows off her bed as well as her bathrobe and a clean tee shirt. Once they're stacked on the unused easy chair at the other end of the couch, he takes himself off to the kitchen and starts a batch of laundry, puts plates, cups and silverware into the dishwasher to run once the wash is done, and searches the pantry for the ingredients he needs to make a soup recipe he memorized years ago from a contraband cookbook.

_(He sorts the whites and colors as the back of the detergent box instructs, puts a load in the washer and adds the soap. The sun shines outside in the yard, the grass a beautiful shade of green beneath the big tree he has already explored and turned into a secret haven from neighborhood bullies. Maybe later after he's hung out the wash he can sneak a book up there and read in peace and quiet, with just the carpenter ants and a few birds for company. At least they don't care if he's worthless.)_

The washer chugs away as Greg chops an onion and sautes it in some browned butter in Sarah's beloved cast-iron skillet. He doesn't really mind the lack of company. Solitude has never bothered him all that much unless the pain is so bad he needs a distraction, but then he felt that way before the blood clot wreaked its havoc. If he's honest, he finds most people incomprehensible; they tend to live their lives in the warm shallows of puerile emotion and soap-opera dramatics, and are content to do so. He’s never understood who the hell would want to live that way; he’s always preferred to explore, question, analyze, dissect, and most important of all, think. It's easier to do all those things without pointless emotional distractions. And yet he finds himself tempted, drawn to the potential comfort of blissful ignorance. It's always a disaster when he gives in, but that hasn't stopped him yet.

When the rest of the vegetables are in the skillet he checks on Sarah. She’s asleep, but it's a fitful rest and she is flushed. Her fever’s up again. When he takes her temp, it's 102.9.

"Any higher and you're going to whatever serves as an ER around here," he says under his breath, and wakes her to drink some water. She is cooperative, but when he tries to get her to finish the cup she flinches away from him. Stricken, he sets the water aside. "Sorry . . ." he says, unsure what to do to make things all right.

"Just a reflex," she whispers. "Not your fault." Her hot, dry fingers clasp his for a moment. "It's okay."

 _She's still in there,_ he thinks, and feels a foolish sense of profound relief. _Sick as a dog and she comforts_ me. _Typical._ He can't help a soft chuckle as he tucks her hand under the covers. "Shut up."

That elicits a slight smile. Then she's asleep again. Her breath rasps a little but she doesn’t struggle or labor, a good sign.

He’s just taken a finished pot of soup off the stove when the phone chirps. The caller ID reads 'Goldman, Gene'.

_(The phone rings right before dinnertime. He's just constructed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the only thing he knows how to make besides box mac and cheese, canned soup and scrambled eggs with butter. When he answers it his father says, "Let me talk to your mother."_

_He clutches the receiver and fights his instant anxiety. Mom will be passed out for the rest of the evening, just like every other time she's gone to bed in the daytime._

" _Greg?"_

" _Sir," he says, casts around wildly for something, anything to say. "Uh—she's—she's sleeping."_

" _Well, go wake her up." Dad sounds calm, but Greg knows that tone. With a sigh he puts down the receiver and goes into his parents bedroom._

_Five minutes later he returns. "She—she won't wake up. I tried--"_

" _What the hell_ _is going on? Is your mother sick? Is she out of the house? Tell me the truth!"_

_He swallows. "She . . . she doesn't want to get up, sir. I tried, but she just—just went back to sleep."_

_Silence. Then, "You did this."_

_Horror and fury surge through him. "I didn't do anything!"_ But what if I hurt her somehow and wasn't smart enough to know?

" _You little jerk, she's worn out from dealing with you all day every day! Can't you ever stop to think even once about the consequences of your actions? You're killing your mother!"_

 _The accusation slaps at him hard, but he’s still surprised to find tears in his eyes. It’s stupid to cry, it’s weak. He wipes the drops away with his free hand, ashamed._ I didn't mean to make her sick! She can't die, I'll be all by myself! _"Dad—I—I'm--I didn’t mean--"_

" _Don't whine, dammit! Just write a note for her to call me back when she wakes up. It doesn't matter what time it is. You can do_ that _much at least?" Scorn fills his father's voice._

" _Yessir." He grabs his homework tablet and penny pencil and takes down the number Dad gives him, reads it back, and waits with his head bowed for the inevitable pronouncement of sentence. It doesn’t take long._

" _Worthless, that's what you are. Make sure you do her chores as well as yours before you go to bed. I'll know if you don't, do you understand?"_

" _Yessir." But his father has already hung up. He replaces the receiver in the cradle with hands that tremble, and abandons his makeshift dinner to get busy on the tasks he's been given.)_

"She's sick," Greg says when he answers the phone. There is a brief silence on the other end.

"Symptoms?" Gene asks quietly.

"Lethargic, diaphoretic, elevated temp, pulse is a little fast but strong."

"How high is her fever?"

"Just shy of one oh three."

"Okay. It's about to break." Gene sounds concerned but not angry or upset. "This is her typical pattern when she gets the flu—a quick high spike to scare the fuck out of everyone, then she's down for a few days with laryngitis and general weakness. Make her stay in bed and keep hydrated. She'll be up and around fairly soon. You know how to deal with things if she gets worse." He pauses. "How are you doing?"

Greg hesitates, surprised by the question. "Fine—I'm fine."

"Pain levels okay? You'll be hurting if you've been up and down the stairs much. Take Lyrica and the ibuprofen prn, just do it on a full stomach. I'll let Sarah know I cleared it if she's still counting your meds."

He doesn't know what to say. Gene saves him the trouble. "Is she awake and coherent enough to talk with me for a bit?"

When Greg hands Sarah the phone she smiles at the sound of Gene's voice. "Hey," she whispers, and coughs. Greg goes back to the kitchen and puts the soup away, cleans up the utensils and throws the wash in the dryer. He returns to the living room to find Sarah asleep, the phone still in her hand. He picks it up and replaces the receiver on the cradle, goes back into the kitchen to make himself some slices of peanut butter toast, and ends up in his chair to watch tv with the sound turned down. He's sore and in pain from all the extra movement, but some hot water therapy and an extra Lyrica later on will take enough of the edge off for him to handle it. No sleep meds tonight though. _She'll want to check my meds after her fever's broken and she's had some rest._ The thought doesn't bother him; in fact it gives him an odd sense of reassurance. He switches over to the Sixers game—one bonus of life in New York, the sports subscription channels don't black out Philly teams unless they're playing at the Meadows—and munches his toast, content to be where he is.


	5. Chapter 5

_March 3rd_

"I need to go into town."

Sarah blew her nose and looked up at Greg. He moved his gaze away from hers and shifted his feet. He wore his good trainers and a clean pair of jeans and tee shirt under his flannel; he'd even combed his hair. "Okay," she said, and took yet another tissue from the box. "Minnie's keys are in my coat pocket. Give her a couple of minutes to warm up, she's not a spring chicken."

He scowled at her. "You're not gonna poke me with a cattle prod to get the truth."

"Do you need me to do that?" she asked in mild amusement. Greg sighed.

"I just came off thirty days of counting meds and body-cavity strip searches after an OD. It doesn't make sense that you'd let me go somewhere without making sure I'm not . . ." He trailed off and looked uncomfortable.

"Are you planning to score a fix?" Sarah asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.

"Stupid question. I wouldn't tell you if I was," he snapped.

"You think I'm an idiot for trusting you."

"Yes!" He sent her an exasperated glare. Sarah gave her nose another swipe. She understood what this was really all about, but he needed to understand too. She wasn't about to be railroaded into the role of bad parent.

"Well, okay. I can go with you if it would make you feel better."

"No!" He rolled his eyes. Sarah bit back a laugh.

"I see. You want me to scold you." She pinched the bridge of her nose and squinched her face in imitation of Jim's usual pained expression. "Whatever you do, don't you dare waste your money on junk food or porn. Stay away from the bakery and absolutely don't buy your analyst any cherry danish or cream puffs, and most definitely don't take a couple of twenties from the petty cash jar in the kitchen and put some gas in the truck. Behave yourself or you'll burn in hell." She paused, removed her hand and gave him mock-hopeful look. "There, I think that covered everything. Feel better?"

He scowled down at her, but his vivid gaze held reluctant humor. "Anything else?"

"Throw in some high-test, it'll make the truck happy. Oh, and get your hair cut. Short sides, some off the top. Gordy's a good barber, his shop is next to the post office." She sipped some tea. "Take your phone just in case. Do you have on clean underwear? You never know--"

"Okay Mom, okay! Jeez!" He turned away, but not before she saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Sarah watched him stump to the closet and put on his parka. When he was gone she closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillow. She _was_ worried about this first solo venture, even if it was only into a very small corner of the wider world. Still, he needed the chance to discover for himself if he was ready. She sighed, picked up the lotion and dabbed it on her sore nose as she checked the tv channel guide once more for something to watch.

 

It's a nice day, sunny and bright with a hard blue sky overhead and clean white snow piled everywhere. Greg drives Minnie with care and knows a strange sense of déjà vu as he takes her down the lane in the morning light. She handles just as she did in the dream, smooth as silk with a throaty purr that tells him how much his analyst cares for this old Jimmy.

It still amazes and disconcerts him that Sarah offers him her trust. He's not at all sure he deserves it, because he really has fought the urge to find a source and load up on something, anything—pot would be easiest to get and cheaper long-term, though use would be much harder to disguise of course. But he can't, he _won't_ do it; the damn drugs didn't help, they only made things worse, and now his secret heart knows it too. He has to try Sarah's advice and choose to stay clean. He's not at all sure it will work, it's too simple and simple things are never easy, but he has to give it a chance.

He decides to get the haircut first. The barber shop is right where Sarah said it would be. Greg parks in front of the feed store and walks across the square. He feels uneasy, on edge. He knows no one here, at least not well enough to say more than a few words; after so many years spent in the narrow confines of his acquaintanceships at the hospital, it feels weird to be so anonymous. He has to admit it's a nice taste of freedom too, though. No one knows he’s a fuckup, not yet anyway.

Outside the shop is an old-fashioned barber’s pole. The faded red, blue and white spiral stripes turn in slow, endless ascension. Inside the shop there are a couple of customers, retired farmers by the look of their weather-beaten faces and shabby Carhartt jackets. They nod at him as he passes by, their glances shrewd but not unkind. He stands near the cash register, unsure what to do. He hasn't been in a place like this for years.

_("I won't have my son looking like a damn faggot! You'll go to the barber on the base or I'll do it myself with the hedge clippers, you understand me?")_

"Mornin'." An older man in a white coat sets aside his newspaper, rises to his feet and approaches Greg. "I'm Gordy. Help ya?"

_("I know your old man wants you to get a buzzcut, but I think we can compromise." The barber leaves the clippers in their holder. "Lemme talk to him later today after he's had a couple beers. He'll listen better with some brew in him. Just make yourself scarce in the meantime. That all right with you?")_

It takes a few minutes to get settled. Once he's in the chair the older man covers him with a clean white cotton drape and says quietly, "How y'want it?"

"Short sides, some off the top." Gordy nods and takes a comb from a glass filled with water and, by the florid, agreeable scent, a few drops of bay rum.

"You're the fella stayin' with the Goldmans," he says after a brief silence.

"That would be me," Greg says, and braces for a nasty exchange.

"Good people. Always doin' somethin' t'help out here in town." Gordy pauses to choose a pair of scissors. "Hear Gene's in Haiti."

"Yup."

"So you're takin' care of business while he's away."

Greg catches the man's eye in the mirror. "Nope."

After a moment Gordy nods, his lean face creased with humor. "Nice t'have a little sunshine after that big nor'easter hit. Power went out over half the village. Took three crews t'get things fixed."

Half an hour later Greg is full up on local gossip and on his way to the grocery, a bit more spring in his step. He feels better, lighter. Of course the amount of hair on the floor after his cut would explain that; given how big his bald spot on top is now, he can only surmise he must have looked like the Wild Man of Borneo for the last month or so.

The store is almost empty, nondescript music playing over the sound system. He grabs a cart and puts his cane along the side, runs down his mental checklist, and heads off to the candy section.

A short time later he sees someone walk past the end of the aisle—a slender figure enveloped in a shabby parka, a basket over her arm. _The electrician chick_ , he thinks with a mental groan. The last thing he wants is a confrontation with her. He slows his steps and pauses when he hears her yell

"Hey Joe! Put on Deep 80s! This music sucks!"

Greg can't help but agree. After a moment the station changes. When he hears the song he remembers the first time he heard it, in some ridiculous nightclub Stacy insisted they check out. She'd actually gotten him to dance when it came on. Stupid lyrics, but the beat was excellent and that was what counted.

_(They move together on the crowded dance floor. Stacy's face is spangled with dots of light; her arms rest on his shoulders as he moves with her, his hands on her hips as he spins her in slow, sweet circles and laughs at the slight sensation of centrifugal force, the brilliance of her smile, her eyes agleam with amusement and desire and focused on him, only him.)_

His memory is shattered by the sound of someone’s voice. 'Singing' is a very charitable description of the sounds he hears. It has to be Roz. It’s more than clear she cannot carry a tune in a bucket. He moves forward, his intent to put a stop to the aural desecration she dares commit in a public place.

As Greg rounds the corner he stops just short of the aisle. Roz is in the middle of the canned vegetables section. The basket she carried is set off to the side; her arms are extended as she spins, and her feet move in perfect time with the music. She may be a lousy singer but her rhythm is excellent. Despite the heavy coat and thick boots she looks like she's about to rise into the air, like a Sufi who whirls in ecstatic, holy trance. The expression on her thin face is beatific. She's totally into the music, and doesn't care who knows it. It's been a very long time since he's seen anyone enjoy a simple pleasure so thoroughly. He envies her the ability to do so.

In uncharacteristic discretion Greg retreats to the magazine rack and stays there until he's sure Roz has moved on. When he enters the aisle, she is gone as if she never existed. Only the music plays, a different tune for another customer, another day.

A half hour or so later he is in the little bakery, about to purchase some cherry danish for his analyst, when his cell phone goes off.

"You have visitors," Sarah says. She sounds terse—not exactly upset, but not thrilled either. Greg's heart gives one great leap. _Cuddy_ . . . Even as he thinks it he knows there's no way it's her, and even if it was, Lucas would be there too; Sarah said 'visitors'. He winces as pain rakes his thigh. The spasm causes him to drop his change on the counter.

"Dammit. Who is it?" He scrabbles to pick up the coins and take the bag offered him.

"Doctors Chase and Hadley. Do you want to see them?" In the background he hears Chase say something in an indignant tone, and Greg almost smiles. If he says no, Sarah will send them on their way. It's a temptation, but the desire to find out why they came trumps petty choice for once.

"Yeah," he says. "Be there shortly." He ends the call and adds a dozen doughnuts to his order. He knows Thirteen won't be able to resist them, and Chase will tease her about her lack of willpower all the way back to Princeton.

He stops to put gas in the truck, tops it off and buys a soda for the road. As he heads toward home he puts on the radio and catches the start of 'Mother's Little Helper' on the classic rock station. The irony is just too delicious. His tension over the meeting fades a bit as he gives in, cranks up the volume to sing along. For one moment he is sixteen again and sits shotgun in a friend's Camaro, Coke and cheap vodka in hand while the stereo blasts.

The apprehension returns when Greg pulls into the drive and sees Chase's ancient BMW, travel-stained by road grime and salt. He and Thirteen really are here; he can already feel the pain they will cause by their questions and earnest concern for his welfare, or whatever the hell it is that brings them to Sarah's doorstep. He sits behind the wheel for a moment, senses the weight of gravity attempt to pull him to earth. He wishes for one moment he could dance like Roz, just spin in ecstasy with no care for who might be around. Then he opens the door and steps out to face whatever is to come.

_'Chains Of Love,' Erasure_

_'Mother's Little Helper', the Rolling Stones_


	6. Chapter 6

Remy sipped her bottled water and looked out the window. "Are we almost there?"

"You're worse than a kid." Robert sent her an amused glance. "Yes, we're almost there."

"We should have called first." She watched enormous piles of snow flash by. "He'll probably refuse to see us."

"He won't." Robert sounded confident. "You know the man, he can't resist a puzzle of any kind. He'll want to know why we came all this way on a workday."

"He'll figure it out before we even knock on the door."

"No, he'll _think_ he's figured it out. It's our job to make sure he doesn't. Not right away, anyway." Robert's smile faded. "The more we intrigue him, the better our chance at success."

"You worked for the man how long? And you still have this delusion that you can beat him at his own game?" Remy tipped her head back. "It won't work. Too many variables. And it's too easy."

"He's been gone almost a year. We deserve to know if we're ever going to get our Diagnostics fellowships back."

Eventually they turned off the highway onto a long narrow lane, and then a gravel drive. The house rose up to meet them at the end of it--a beautiful place, surrounded by trees that probably offered welcome shade in the summer. It looked as if no one was home; Remy searched in vain for House's battered old car. As they drew closer someone opened the front door and came out, hand lifted to shade her eyes as they approached. Remy recognized the woman's coppery-auburn curls, tamed into a thick, untidy braid.

"Doctor Goldman," she said. Robert nodded. He parked to the side as much as possible—not an easy task, with walls of snow everywhere—and turned off the engine.

"Do or die," he said, and sounded much too cheerful. Remy frowned at him. She made no comment however, only got out of the car.

"Good morning," Doctor Goldman said as they approached. She seemed less than thrilled to see them.

"Good morning," Robert said. "We're here to visit Doctor House."

The older woman studied them. After a few moments she turned to open the door, swung it wide in silent invitation. They followed her inside, only to stop in astonishment at the scene before them. _It's like a really cool treehouse_ , Remy thought, her arm half in, half out of her coat sleeve. _If you could put big stone fireplaces and wide-plank floors and plastered walls up in a tree . . ._ Beside her Robert stood wide-eyed, his mouth open slightly as his gaze moved around the room. After a moment he glanced at her, then away.

"Have a seat," Doctor Goldman said. "I'll give Doctor House a call, he's out at the moment." She already had her cell phone in hand. Remy watched her as she dialed. It was plain she'd been ill; her face was pale, the end of her nose reddened, and she'd lost a little weight. Besides, she'd been camped out on the couch in front of the fireplace for some time if the box of tissues, small stack of paperbacks, tv remote and cup of tea scattered across the coffee table were anything to go by.

"You have visitors," Doctor Goldman said into the phone. "Doctors Chase and Hadley. Do you want to see them?"

"Hey—excuse me!" Robert said in some indignation. "We came a long way, you can't just send us back without so much as hello!" Remy shook her head and sent him a warning glare.

Doctor Goldman ignored him and ended the call. "He'll see you," she said. Her tone was cool, impersonal. "Let me take your coats."

"She doesn't sound too happy about it," Robert said quietly to Remy as soon as the woman was out of earshot.

"I told you we should have called first.”

"Yeah? I don't see you making any effort to leave." He fell silent as Doctor Goldman came back. She sat on the couch and pulled a tissue from the box.

"It'll take Doctor House a few minutes to return," she said. "While we're waiting, perhaps you could tell me why you're visiting? The real reason," she said as Robert sent her an annoyed look.

"We haven't heard anything about House for months," Remy said. "Just the usual rumors you get through the hospital grapevine. I'm here to find out how he is because I'm concerned." That was the truth, as far as it went. Doctor Goldman studied her. After a moment she nodded.

"Okay. You?" She looked at Robert.

"What she said." He gave Goldman a smile. She didn't return it.

"Here's what you two need to know," she said after a moment. "My first duty is to protect my patient's privacy. I absolutely will not discuss any aspect of his treatment without his permission, so if this is a deep-sea fishing expedition you can turn around right now and go back to Princeton."

"That's something of a change in attitude since the last time we met," Robert said. He sounded cynical, accusatory. Goldman didn't flinch.

"It is. I learned my lesson about breaking trust, even with the best of intentions. It won't happen again." The flat tone told them she meant every word.

"House got you fired, didn't he?" Robert leaned forward a little. Goldman regarded him with a cool speculation that was somehow worse than open anger or hostility.

"I don't know what machinations are going on at your workplace, but they will not be welcomed or tolerated in this household," she said after a brief, awkward silence. "Now, do you still want to stay?"

"Yes," Remy said before Robert could reply. She didn't look at him. "I want to make sure he's okay."

The sound of the front door as it was opened put a stop to further discussion. Remy heard the familiar thump-step of House's compromised gait and felt an unexpected rush of something like affection. She got to her feet. A moment later Robert did too. House entered the room still in his coat, a shabby dark blue anorak. Remy’s first thought was _he's so thin._ The impression that followed was odd though. He seemed . . . clearer, like a window washed for the first time in many years. It was a bad analogy, but the image persisted in her mind's eye. _Translucent_ , she thought. _Not quite there yet, but some light’s getting in._

"Truck's full of bags." House glanced at Robert. "Make yourself useful."

The younger man hesitated, then rolled his eyes and strode to the door. Remy hid a smile. House shrugged off his coat, dumped it in a chair and turned to her. He waited until the front door closed before he spoke.

"I go out for the first time in weeks and you two show up." He sounded angry. "Your excuse for this road trip should offer some amusement, if nothing else."

"We wanted to see you," Remy said. "It was our idea, no one else's."

House glared at her. She'd forgotten how intimidating those ice-blue eyes could be. "Highly unlikely. Give the truth a try."

"We haven't heard anything in months," Remy said. She took a deep breath; what she was about to do would infuriate Robert, but the sight of this place, Doctor Goldman's fierce defense of her patient, and House apparently drug-free and in the throes of something like a real recovery for the first time ever—she couldn't go through with their plan. "We did come here to find out if you're returning, maybe try to convince you to go back, but . . ." She made herself continue, even though she knew it would earn her a sarcastic smackdown. "You need to be here. I can see that now."

"Well golly gee, that's very understanding of you. I'm all _verklempt_." The anger beneath the sarcasm made her wince. "I’d be mildly interested in the name of the person who talked you into this." House watched her.

"No one talked me into anything," Remy said. She hesitated. "You think someone else put Chase up to this."

House didn't answer. He glanced at her hand. "Tremors are worse."

She nodded, unsurprised by his observation. "It's been a long morning."

"Have you had anything to eat?" Doctor Goldman sounded a little less frosty. Remy shook her head as Robert returned, laden with bags.

"That is one beauty of a truck," he said, and this time it was honest appreciation and not calculated charm that made him smile.

Lunch was actually rather pleasant. They sat at a lovely old harvest table in the dining area, while a radio played in the background and warm late-winter sunshine streamed through the windows. They enjoyed homemade beef stew and fresh crusty rolls, with apple tart for dessert. Conversation was minimal but the atmosphere was a bit less tense, if for no other reason than the communal experience.

Remy watched House and Goldman as she ate. They weren't lovers; there were none of the tell-tale signs—a touch on the arm, exchanged glances, subtle intimacies missed by a casual viewer. Instead she found their relationship resembled a mother-son bond. House seemed more confident when Goldman was present, more relaxed. She in turn made sure he had everything he needed without being intrusive or fussy. It was obvious she held her patient in affectionate regard, but also respected him. It was the first time Remy had seen House show even a modicum of trust in anyone, and the knowledge gave her a curious sense of comfort. He really had found the start of healing here at long last. Still, the man barely ate anything—very unusual for a chow hound who stole liberally from everyone else’s plate. After a time he got up, went to the fridge and returned with a cold beer.

"Little early for alcohol, isn't it?" Robert said. House took a long swallow.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he said, and belched. Remy said nothing; she recognized deliberate provocation when she saw it. "Hope you got paid well to make this little pilgrimage."

Robert blinked. "I—what?"

"Come on, don't be coy. Wilson was probably involved too, he's usually the middleman in these happy little mind games everyone's been playing lately."

"No one paid me anything," Robert snapped. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're saying you're here out of the goodness of your heart just to check on me." House shook his head. "Uh uh. Go sell your cheap Aussie soap somewhere else, I'm not buying it."

"So now I'm not allowed to make sure my one-time boss is doing all right?" Robert tilted his head. "I'll have a beer myself if there's an interrogation on the agenda."

"No," Remy said. "You're designated driver." She ignored his exasperated sigh. "Why would you think it's Wilson who's orchestrating something? You two are best friends."

"I have my reasons." House looked away, but not before she saw the flash of pain in those brilliant eyes. Remy considered his remarks.

"You really think someone is going after you through Wilson and by extension, through us?" She caught House's glance at Goldman. The older woman returned it with a one of her own, and after a moment he gave a reluctant nod.

"We don't think, we know," Doctor Goldman said. "We have direct evidence. That makes everyone from Princeton-Plainsboro suspect, at least for now." The faint western twang in her soft voice was a little more pronounced. Remy suspected it was an indicator of strong emotion. _Protection for House_ , she thought, and warmed a little more toward her. _But from whom, exactly?_

"So because Wilson's dancing to someone else's tune, you think we are too?" Robert folded his arms and looked offended. "Thanks a lot."

"You'll forgive my plain speaking, but you've all knowingly enabled addictive behavior for quite some time and have a vested interest in returning things to the way they were before Doctor House went on sabbatical." Goldman spoke without heat, but Remy sensed the anger deep within her. "That makes all of you guilty until proven innocent."

"What choice did we have? If we'd tried to do anything—" Robert began, but Remy interrupted him.

"You're right." House narrowed his gaze. She continued, felt her cheeks grow warm. "We were wrong to put our careers ahead of someone else's well-being."

"But you're not above giving it one last try," Goldman said dryly. Remy wanted to bang her head on the table.

"Okay, yes. That _was_ my intention. But it isn't now." She searched for the right words and knew it was pointless. "I don't know what to say to convince you."

"Don't bother." House finished his beer. "Obviously you've taken up Cameron's role of naïve ingénue. It really doesn't suit you. Once you've been slathered with honey and thrown to the lesbians, you can never go back." He patted his chest. "Makes my heart go thumpety-thump just thinking about it." Remy rolled her eyes. House glanced at Robert. "Your wifey should be here. This kind of thing is right up her alley."

"She's . . . we . . ." Robert looked down at his hands. "She left me." House said nothing. "I . . . made a choice. She saw it as a mistake. I didn't." Robert shrugged. "End of story."

"Oh, I don't think so," House said quietly. "Define 'mistake'."

"I'll tell you if you tell us whether you're ever coming back," Robert said. Remy almost groaned aloud. Had the man learned _nothing_ in all the years he'd worked with House?

" _Quid pro quo_ , Clarice." House tipped his chair back a bit. "Returning to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital is not on the schedule at the moment." He set the empty beer bottle on the table and folded his hands across his middle. "Now tell."

The knock at the door was perfectly timed. Doctor Goldman glanced at the front hallway. "I'll get it," she said, and rose from the table. House watched her, his gaze wary. After a moment he switched his attention back to Robert. "Tell."

"It can wait," Robert said as Goldman returned with someone at her side—a young guy, tall and gangly in a silk suit and white shirt. Remy thought he would have looked more at home on a snowboard.

"Dude!" The young guy gave House a huge grin. "It's on! We can schedule the nerve block for next week."


	7. Chapter 7

_Now this is interesting,_ Greg thinks. The tableau before him is worthy of any stage production: Sarah is annoyed and concerned; her red curls almost spark with her worry. Thirteen looks surprised and then genuinely pleased. Chase is surprised as well, but there’s calculation with it--he's recognized the new guy. Reynard is oblivious to all of this; his sole focus is on Greg's good news.

"Doctor Reynard," Sarah says, "Doctors Hadley and Chase from Princeton-Plainsboro."

"Great to meet you both," Reynard says. He eyes Thirteen with interest. "Heard about the Dibala case, that must have created a ton of red tape."

"No more than usual," Chase says He sounds casual, even blasé. "Just one of those things that happens."

 _Right,_ Greg thinks. He'd observed Chase's initial reaction to Reynard's comment—one infinitesimal flash of alarm and guilt before the charm kicked in—and knows the _quid pro quo_ is no longer necessary. _Our lapsed Catholic has done something big enough to cause him a shitload of ethical agony._ To have Thirteen shut him down without hesitation over a beer is another confirmation. Greg notes once more the younger man's slightly bloodshot eyes, fair hair on the shaggy side, wrinkled shirt under a clean sweater. The wedding ring is still in place, though. That's something of a surprise, if one considers the probable magnitude of the 'thing'; the news of the dictator's death and subsequent investigation of PPTH's methods have been staple fare in the media for weeks now. _Wonder if the divorce papers have been served yet. Cameron won't tolerate any action that deviates from her narrow definition of morality. I'd say deliberately killing a patient more than qualifies._ Wilson is a source for details but Greg’s decided against it. The price he'd have to pay in return would be far too high. Besides, all things come to those who wait, as this little encounter has proven.

"Is this a flying visit or are you here for a day or two?" Sarah asks.

"I'll stay over if you have the space for me," Reynard says. His enthusiasm has backed off a bit, possibly because of the thick current of tension in the room. That, or the lack of reaction on Greg's part at his news.

"Plenty of room," Sarah says. She’s concerned, though. "Why don't you grab your usual spot upstairs and get changed? There are some leftovers in the fridge if you haven't had lunch yet. We can talk about Greg's case later." Reynard opens his mouth. "In private."

"Right—okay. Sorry," the kid says, and looks a little shamefaced. Once he's gone to get his things, Sarah turns to Chase.

"I'll be waiting to see what happens next." Her tone is pure Arctic chill.

"I'm not reporting to anyone," Chase says, blue eyes wide with indignation. Sarah doesn't bother to reply, only turns to Thirteen.

"You'll understand if I ask you to go now," she says quietly.

"Of course." The younger woman offers her a slight smile. "Thanks for all your help." She glances at Greg. "Take care of yourself, House."

"I don't think either of you will see the bright lights of Princeton for at least the next couple of days," Greg says. "I checked the forecast this morning."

The Weather Channel confirms it; there's a nor'easter headed up the coast. When Reynard comes down he looks at the tv screen covered with tendrils of pink, white and purple snowfall indicators and nods. "Yeah, it's a bad one. Everything below Baltimore's completely shut down already. Most of the Corridor will be hit hard by tomorrow." He gives Chase and Thirteen a curious look. "You didn't know? It was headline news in Philly. The mayor's already declared a snow emergency."

Greg sees Thirteen shoot Chase a glance of pure exasperation. He returns it with a slight shrug, and an innocent expression. "The last time I heard about it they weren't sure what track it would take," he says. Greg gives him points for a halfway believable excuse. The boy's improved his technique.

"Okay," Sarah says, and wipes her reddened nose with a tissue. She looks resigned. "Will, you can share with Doctor Chase. Doctor Hadley, you can take my room. I've been sleeping down here on the couch, it's no problem to continue." She sighs softly. "We'll probably lose power if the winds are as bad as they're predicting. You'd all better make any necessary calls while you've still got charged phones and the land line's functioning. After that I'd appreciate it if we could bring in plenty of firewood, it's easier than fighting through ten foot drifts every few hours."

"Ten foot drifts?" Thirteen says. She looks a little worried now.

"She's exaggerating," Greg says. "They're nine, tops." He settles in and addresses the group. "Get busy."

The young guys haul split wood into the house, take loads upstairs and stack a huge pile on the hearth of the main fireplace before they fill up the mudroom. The women distribute clothing—sweaters, flannels and thick socks borrowed from Gene—and bring out some extra blankets and comforters from the linen closet. Greg watches all of this industry from the comfort of the easy chair he's appropriated, perfectly content to observe. He'll tend the fires here and in his bedroom; that's more than enough to keep him occupied.

"If anyone needs to get cleaned up, do it now," Sarah says when they've all congregated in the living room once more. "We can pump water by hand from the well if we have to, but it'll be just short of freezing and the biggest teakettle I have only holds a gallon. Anyway, a hot shower beats an ice bath." She glances at Reynard. "Want to make a quick run to town to pick up a few things?"

An hour later the first flakes fall past the windows. Inside where it is warm and comfortable, everyone is squeaky-clean, bundled up in thick layers, and settled into little groups. Sarah and Thirteen are in the kitchen; Reynard and Chase watch tv and chat back and forth, mostly shop talk. The tension hasn't really lessened; the communal anticipation of the storm has set it aside, but it'll return, of that Greg has no doubt.

The winds start to pick up an hour before sunset. When he enters the kitchen to check on supper, Greg sees Sarah glance at the fading daylight, her pale face expressionless. He knows she dreads a power outage. It's happened twice since he's come to stay here; she never complained or showed her fear openly either time, but he knew she was afraid all the same. Now her husband is absent, she has a houseful of unexpected guests to care for, and above all that is the possibility of some unforeseen event--a tree limb through the roof, a transformer explosion. While she’s recovered to some extent from her upper respiratory infection, she still tires easily.

He limps into the kitchen, where she fills old milk jugs with water while she keeps an eye on the pizzas in the oven. "Enough. Go sit down," he says, his tone brusque.

"I'm all right," Sarah says, distracted by her task. He takes the jug out of her hands.

"Go."

She turns to look at him. Up close he can see she is exhausted, her small store of strength long gone. "Okay," she says after a moment. "Thanks."

"Whatever," he says. He is uncomfortable with a display of concern when others are around, but he knows Sarah won't make a big deal out of it. She doesn't even ask if she can touch him. She just gives him a slight smile that actually reaches her eyes for a moment, and does as he asks.

Supper is taken in the common room, as they watch the nor'easter spin along the coast on the GOES-8 and local Doppler radar feeds. Halfway through the broadcast the satellite signal breaks up. "That's it," Sarah says. "We can watch DVDs, but tv's done for the duration."

Predictably, the houseguests opt for a seat around the fireplace instead. It's a novelty for them of course, but Greg has to admit it’s a pleasant enough way to spend an evening. As he shakes down the logs and stacks more wood, Sarah lights several hurricane lamps, trims the wicks and puts them around the room, then turns off the electric lamps.

"When the service comes back on it won't get hit with a huge demand for juice right away," she says. "A surge can cause more problems than the original loss of power."

"How do you know that?" Reynard munches a slice of pizza.

"It pays to be friends with an electrician," Sarah says. Greg thinks of Roz at work in the office, sees her dance in the grocery aisle. To his surprise he wonders if she's someplace safe and warm tonight.

An hour or so later the power flickers for a few minutes, then goes off. Reynard pauses as he plays—he's used the six-string Martin as an opportunity to flirt with Thirteen, much to her amusement—and looks at Sarah, who takes a deep breath. "It's going to get colder," she says. Greg knows the others have no idea how hard it is for her to make that simple statement. "Just stay close to the nearest source of heat and wear plenty of layers. Don't overload the fireplaces and stoves or we'll end up sleeping in the neighbor's barn after the house burns down. Once the storm's passed the utility crews will be at work as soon as the main roads are plowed, they're pretty good at this kind of thing here."

"How long do you think it'll be out?" Thirteen gives the windows a worried look.

"Last time it was a couple of days," Greg says. "We had the upstairs closed off, but it'll stay warmer with fires going in the bedrooms." That's a lie, but no one else knows it except Sarah. His fib has the desired effect, however; the guests relax and after a bit, talk starts up again.

After a while people drift off to bed. Eventually the room falls silent except for the crackle of the fire. Greg picks up the guitar Reynard used, tunes it a bit, then starts to play, lets bits and pieces of melody fit together. Sarah lies on the couch under a comforter, propped with a big pillow, her reading glasses perched lightly on her pink nose.

"Did you know," she says after a few minutes, "that in Rome under the rule of Tiberius, you could be prosecuted for showing your naked behind to a statue of Augustus?"

Greg smiles a little. This is a game they play now and then, toss facts back and forth to see who laughs first, or makes a mistake. "Too bad they had those things on the back of every toilet tank. Sort of like a dashboard saint." He picks a few bars of 'Plastic Jesus' while he thinks up a reply. "Did you know that Tiberius's wife Julia did the nasty with her lovers on the Rostra in the Senate chambers?"

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "Some things never change. Did you know the name Caligula means 'little boots'?"

Greg snorts. "Is there anyone alive who doesn't know that one?" He riffles through his knowledge of ancient Rome under the first emperors. "Did you know Ovid's paternal surname was Naso? Apparently they grew some real beaks on his dad's side."

Sarah flips a few pages and pushes up her glasses. "Huh. Did you know the legions had a sacred chicken that traveled with them during campaigns so a priest could read auguries in the bird poop?"

He smirks. "Who knew they had spinmeisters back then?" When Sarah laughs he strums the guitar in triumph.

"Yeah yeah, you won," she says with a smile. "This time." They fall into a comfortable silence.

"I remembered something," he says eventually. Sarah looks at him over the top of the book.

"What was it?"

"Ice baths."

_(Greg stands naked by the tub, watches as his father dumps the second bag of ice into the water. He endured the first ten-minute submersion the night before; including tonight, he's got six more baths to go. Dad balls up the plastic bag and tosses it into the trash can._

" _Get in," he says. Greg stares at the water and cannot move. "Get in or I'll put you there myself and it'll be for double the time."_

_It is not an idle threat. Greg takes a deep breath and lifts his foot, plunges it into the water._

_The pain is beyond intense. He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, but he forces himself to put the other foot in._

" _Quit stalling and sit, dammit!" Dad's voice echoes off the tiled walls. Greg closes his eyes. With trembling hands he grips the sides of the tub and lowers his body. His testicles try to crawl up inside him in anticipation._

" _Lie down." His father's tone is inexorable. "Don't make me tell you twice."_

_Ten minutes can be an entire lifetime. He concentrates on how to move breath in and out of his lungs despite the uncontrollable tremor in his muscles; the relentless knives of cold stab deep and hard. Dad says something and Greg knows he needs to listen or things will get worse, but he feels like he's gone into a tunnel where he can't . . . can't . . ._

_A rough hand hauls him halfway out of the water. "Wake up!"_

_He gasps, the shakes so bad his jaws clack together. Dad's grip burns his arm like fire._

" _A real man doesn't pass out! But then you're_ not _a real man, are you? Readin' cookbooks like a damn faggot—cooking is women's work!" Dad favors him with a glare, his contempt obvious. A part of Greg would like to explain that if he wants to eat something besides canned soup and pbjs he has to figure out how to use recipes, because Mom's too stoned from mid-morning on to get out of bed, let alone make lunch or supper. But another part of him knows this is a secret he can never admit out loud, not if he wants to live past the age of eight._

" _You've got five minutes left." His father lets go of him. Greg looks down at his legs to make sure they're still there; he can't feel them anymore. His nail beds are blue._ Five minutes, _he thinks, and forces himself to lie down. He hopes he won't faint again.)_

"No one could endure that much cold without blacking out, but I'm sure you were punished further for disobedience," Sarah says when he's done. Her matter of fact tone keeps him from a total emotional lockdown.

"He'd increased it to fifteen minutes by the third night because I kept passing out. It was up to twenty at the end. He took the cost of the ice out of my allowance too. I ended up mowing lawns all summer to pay him back." Greg feels the frustration and rage at the unfairness of it all still inside him. "So I found a way out, sort of. I went deep inside my head where none of it could get to me. Where he couldn't get to me."

"You chose to be numb inside," Sarah says. He considers her statement.

"I always called it silent running," he says eventually. "But . . . yeah. That fits."

"I think as you got older, you found other ways to stay numb. Better ways," she says. Greg nods. Sarah doesn't say anything more, only returns to her book. He knows she will let him come to her with his observations in his own time; he's grateful for her willingness to be patient and not lecture or prod him. She was right—it's become just a little easier to remember, and then share the memories with her.

After a while he sets the guitar aside, stretches a bit and gets to his feet, winces as his thigh gives a warning cramp. After a moment it lets go, but he'll have to lie down and stretch out his leg soon or he'll end up in a full spasm. In silence he goes to the fire and builds it up with care. Afterward he replaces the screen and heads off to his bedroom.

Later as he drops off to sleep he hears Sarah play 'Plastic Jesus' in a slow ballad style, complete with flourishes. He smiles just a little as he drifts away.

_'Plastic Jesus,' The Goldcoast Singers_


	8. Chapter 8

_March 4th_

_(She stands at the gate to a back yard. Hot, full sunshine pours down over the expanse of lawn before her, but it is not a cheerful sight. The grass has been cut too short and some of the crowns have died as a consequence; there are bare spots, nothing but cracked, dry dirt. A neglected board fence encloses the area and provides the only shade, as there are no trees or bushes or even flowers anywhere. It is a desolate setting, one she has visited before and knows well._

_She opens the gate and enters the yard, lifts her hand to her eyes as she searches for a sign of life. In a far corner she finds what she looks for. A small figure sits huddled in on himself in the scant shade of the fence, head down, knees drawn up. He is clad in a tee shirt, worn jeans and shabby high-top sneakers with a red ball on the side; most of his hair has been sheared off in a severe buzz cut. Slowly she walks toward him, makes sure to move in a lateral direction rather than approach him head on. Only when he pulls in tighter on himself does she stop. With care she sits on the prickly grass and folds her legs Indian-style. She doesn't face him, she sits beside him, though she is about seven feet away._

" _Hey Greg," she says softly. "It's me, Sarah."_

_At first there is no response. Then he slowly lifts his head to look at her. She is horrified to see one eye is bruised shut, though the other one is bright enough, his gaze thorough, intense._

" _What happened?" she asks. There is a long silence._

" _Ran into a door." His tone is perfunctory, sullen._

" _That's what you've been told to say," she says quietly. "You can tell me the truth."_

" _No I can't," he says. It's not a statement, though; there is a hint of a question in his words._ Good _, she thinks._ He doesn't want to lie.

_"Yeah, you can," she says, smiles a little, and waits._

" _It's no big deal."_

" _It is to me," she says. "No one has the right to hurt you that way." She pauses. "Please tell me who did this."_

" _Mom," he says after a long silence, so long she thinks he won't answer. There is so much emotion in that one word—pain, despair, bewilderment._

" _Why did she hit you?" He looks away. His skinny arms tighten around his legs._

" _She didn't mean to," he says finally._

" _Did she know what she was doing?" She asks the question gently._

" _No." The dull resignation in his voice makes her heart ache for him._

" _But you're not mad at her," she says. He shrugs._

" _She's my mom."_

" _I understand.”_

 _After a few minutes he glances at her, a furtive gesture she pretends not to notice._ " _Did your mom ever . . ." His voice trails off._

" _Lots of times," she says. "Mostly she didn't know. Sometimes she did. She just needed something to hit and I was there."_ _They sit in the meager shade for a while, silent, watching heat shimmers rise up from the parched ground._

" _She—she yelled at you too?" he asks. Sarah nods._

" _Oh yeah. A lot."_

" _I bet she didn’t make any sense." He edges a little closer. She keeps her body language relaxed and open._

" _Not very often. The drugs made her lose track of time and she would forget even simple things, like my name." She chuckles softly but there's no humor in the sound. "When she called me she always said 'c'mere'. For years I thought that was her special name for me. Dumb kid."_

" _You weren't dumb!" He sounds a little indignant._

_She thinks about it. "You're right. Thanks." He nods and they fall silent again._

" _My mom makes me . . .do things,” he says finally._

" _What kind of things?" She is careful to keep her tone neutral, but for the first time fear creeps in—fear for him._ Oh god . . . please don't tell me he's been molested, or worse. Please . . .

" _You know—chores. Laundry," his disgusted tone tells her everything he feels about_ that _task, "dishes, sweeping the floor. Housework."_

" _Yeah," she says, relieved. "All that and cooking too."_

" _You were allowed to cook." He sounds incredulous._

" _We didn't have cookbooks," she says. "It was mostly canned or frozen stuff. I didn't learn to really cook until I left home. Then my grandma taught me the basics. Later on I took classes."_

" _You can do that?" he asks, eager now. His tone brightens just a little. "They teach lessons outside school, to adults."_

" _Yup," she says, keeps her tone cheerful but quiet. "It's fun."_

_Greg moves a bit closer. "I want to learn how to cook, but my dad—" He stops._

" _He thinks that's for sissies?" He nods, shamefaced. "There are some famous chefs who would disagree." She keeps her tone mild. "Wanting to learn a new skill like cooking is never foolish, Greg."_

" _Then I don’t understand why he—he punishes me." The bewildered, angry frustration rolls off him in waves. She chooses her words with care._

" _Maybe his dad punished him for the same thing."_

_He considers her statement. "But he's an adult. He should know that's not right."_

_She sighs softly and wipes some sweat from her forehead. "It isn't that easy. When you've been scared or hurt deep inside for a long time, sometimes you do mean or cruel things because that's what was done to you. It doesn't make sense, I know. And it doesn't excuse him punishing you for no reason. That was wrong."_

" _I thought so too." He slides over a little more; they're about four feet apart now. "I bet you can learn other stuff, like music lessons."_

" _Of course," she says. "You can get together with other musicians and form groups if you like too."_

" _Like a string quartet? Our teacher brought one into class once. They were amazing. Or . . ." He hesitates. "Maybe you mean more like the Beatles." The hedged eagerness in his voice makes her grieve for him. She sets the feeling aside; he will sense it if she isn't careful, and she'll lose him._

" _Both," she says, and dares to tease him a bit. "Yeah yeah yeah," she sings, and he ducks his head._

" _That's so lame."_

" _Yeah," she sings the final note, and he laughs—a brief, hesitant snicker, but it transforms her sorrow into hope._ He's in there _, she thinks._ They didn't destroy the eight year old inside. That's who I've been working with. Good to know, and I'm glad too.

" _Dad says my music is useless," he says eventually._

" _He's wrong." She looks down at her hands. "Music gets you through the tough times. Nothing that does that is useless."_

" _I think so too!" he says, his excitement plain now."I can play piano or write songs in my mind and no one ever knows but me." He tilts his head to look at her, a gesture so familiar she smiles. "I bet you play instruments too."_

" _Guitar, mostly. Some piano. Squeeze box—"_

" _What's that?" he demands, afire with instant curiosity, and she hides a smile._

" _It's a very old nickname for an accordion."_

" _What else do you play?" He turns a little, doesn’t quite face her. One bony knee shows through a worn spot in his jeans._

" _Tin whistle, and a_ bodhran _. That's a hand-held drum. How about you? What do you play?"_

_"Just piano." His head droops a little. "But my music teacher taught me some chords on her guitar. I want to learn to play everything." His determination is fierce, burning. "Someday I will." He falls silent. "I can sing a little."_

_She nods. "I can sing a little bit too. No great shakes though, just enough to carry a tune."_

" _You have a nice voice," he says. His slender fingers dig into the stubby grass. "My mom used to sing for me sometimes. She doesn't anymore."_

" _Why did she stop?" she asks softly._

" _Dad says I'm too big for that kind of thing now." His sadness is palpable. "It helped me get to sleep."_

" _One of my brothers used to sing me to sleep."_

" _Brothers . . . I don’t have any. What—what are they like?"_

" _They could be a real pain. Sometimes they were nice," she says. "But not usually. Mostly they did stupid pranks or gave me dutch rubs."_

_Greg puts a protective hand over his nearly-bare scalp. "Ouch."_

" _Exactly." She tucks a wilted curl behind her ear. "The one closest to me in age would come in at night and find me crying. He would try to help me fall asleep but he only knew really dumb songs that made me laugh." She remembers the closeness, feels a moment of grief at its loss._

" _Do you remember the songs?" Greg scoots closer. He's so close she could touch him, though she knows that would be a huge mistake._

_“Yeah, they were things he learned from other kids, mostly." She smiles a little. "Like 'Dunderbeck the Butcher'." She glances at him. "Want me to sing it for you?" Greg gives her a brief glance, then nods as he looks away. She launches into the song. He cracks up over the second verse, about the fat boy who buys the pound of sausages and makes them bark. When she sings the chorus for the second time he joins her, every note and word perfect, true and strong. She is about to go into the third verse when another voice interrupts them._

" _Greeeegory!"_

_His enjoyment fades as a look of fear passes over his face._

" _Gregory! Time to come in now!"_

" _I have to go," he mutters._

" _That's okay. Remember what we talked about."_

_He nods, then gets to his feet. Without a look back he walks away, his thin shoulders hunched against the hot, relentless sunshine. She watches him, wishes she could keep him with her, out of harm's way . . .)_

"Hey. Wake up."

Sarah pushed through the last layers of sleep. She blinked and discovered her lashes were wet. Slowly she pulled herself up. Greg sat in the easy chair next to the sofa. He watched her with an odd look on his face. "That was some dream you were having," he said.

"Did I wake you?"

"I wanted to check the fire." He tilted his head, the exact gesture his younger self had made in the dream. "Boozing it up before staggering off to bed and now we're paying the price. Tsk."

She gave him a half-smile. "When I get overtired my dreams can be . . . vivid."

"You were singing," he said. "It sounded like you were enjoying yourself."

"We were," she said. Greg gave her an intense look.

"'We'?"

"Yup," she said. "Anyone else awake?"

"’We were’. Interesting.”

"Me and the other person in the dream," she said, and chuckled when he made an exasperated noise. "Stop fishing, I won't tell you."

"You said the name Greg," he said. His gaze held equal parts suspicion and curiosity. "There was a lot of talk about music."

"Interesting," she said to tease him, and pushed aside the comforter. The room air was considerably cooler and she shivered, reached for her bathrobe. "What do you want for breakfast? I've got some venison sausage thawing out in the freezer, we should probably—"

"You were crying." He sounded angry. "If you have some stupid idea about feeling sorry for me—I don't want your pity, dammit! Fuck that!"

Sarah paused. She kept her voice even and calm. "I don't feel sorry for you, no pity or sympathy." She looked him straight in the eye. "I feel absolute fury at the way your parents abused you. I feel deep sorrow for the pain you've endured. But I'm also proud of you for surviving. There's nothing to pity in any of that." He stared at her, then looked away. She dared to push just a little. "Did you mother ever hit you?"

His gaze snapped back to hers, filled with astonishment and apprehension. "I never said—“

"It was a guess," she said. "I'm sure she doesn't remember." There was a long silence.

"I brought it up once during an argument," he said at last. "She became hysterical, told me I was lying, that she would never . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Did it happen often?" Sarah asked quietly.

He made a dismissive gesture. "Not—not really. No more than once or twice a month. She was usually stoned when she did it, so she didn’t remember. Convenient."

"C'mere," Sarah murmured. At Greg's glance she shook her head.

"You’re saying some bizarro psychic dream version of me told you this." He looked disgusted.

"Nope," she said. "It was an intuitive insight, that's all." At his groan she had to smile. "You know by now my process is based on the Jungian model. Dreams, symbols and synchronicity have meaning in the analytic process."

"You're an idiot. Anyway, it's—it's too damn early in the morning for this kind of talk," Greg said. He ran a hand over his hair and made it stick up in all directions, to reveal his bald spot. He looked tired and disgruntled and yet here he was, ready to argue with her. Sarah felt a surge of affection for him.

"You asked," she said. "Go ahead and build up the fire. I'll cook breakfast."

"Make some damn coffee while you're at it," he growled, but there was no real force behind his words. He limped to the fireplace, shoulders hunched. Sarah watched him for a moment, saw the echo of her dream. _You know his rational mind will continue to resist this process,_ a little voice whispered. _But the child within will respond._

"Yeah yeah yeah," she sang under her breath, and headed for the kitchen.


	9. Chapter 9

Night has fallen a bit early, courtesy of the thick cloud cover from the storm. Snow still falls, but the winds aren’t quite as fierce and the temperature seems to have stopped its free fall into single digits. The kitchen is warm and smells of hot food, wet mittens and hats; the latter items hang from the rail on the wood-burning range used in emergencies like this one. They steam as they dry, and add the smell of wet wool to the fragrance of good food. Everyone is gathered around the table to feast on beef stew and just-baked bread. The two younger men look a little ragged around the edges. They’ve spent most of the day outside to shovel snow and keep the vehicles cleared off. Thirteen stayed in the kitchen with Sarah, to replenish the fires upstairs and help out with food prep and cleanup. Greg’s kept watch on the downstairs fires, with a bit of clandestine recon along the way.

And so here they all are in a scene worthy of any Waltons episode, gathered together under the mellow glow of oil lamps. The day has gone fairly well, all things considered; everyone has gotten along splendidly. _Isn’t that just peachy,_ Greg thinks. _We can’t be having that now._ So he interrupts some boring chitchat about which hospital’s spent the most money on advanced surgical technology, and addresses the Aussie. “I’d be thrilled to find out what’s on your agenda.”

“Came to see you,” Chase says, unperturbed.

“Uh huh,” Greg says. “This sudden interest . . . the word ‘dubious’ comes to mind. You could have gotten updates from Cuddy’s main squeeze. Why bother to come all the way to the source unless you’ve been asked to gather a little first-hand information?”

Chase sighs. He swivels so his blue eyes look straight into Greg’s. His gaze is clear, honest, direct. “I am _not_ here to spy on you.”

“I’d buy that if Cuddy’s home number wasn’t first on your recent calls list.” Greg smacks his forehead. “D’oh! Silly me! You were just informing her of your situation, being stuck here and all.”

“As a matter of fact, yeah.” Chase folds his arms. “If you checked the next number you saw I also let my department head know I’m stranded for the time being. Covering all the bases, really thoughtless of me.”

“Thoughtless, no. Quite the opposite,” Greg says. “Still fairly suspicious though, however you parse it.” He glances at Thirteen, who gives him a ‘don’t ask _me_ ’ stare. “Okay, fine. Observe all you like. Report back to your puppet master when you finally get out of here. Just so you know . . .” He fishes for a good threat. “My analyst will beat up anyone you guys send after me.”

Will finishes off a thick slice of buttered bread and slurps some stew. “Even though I have no idea what you’re talking about, that last part is true,” he says, unaware of the amused look Sarah sends his way as she removes an apple cobbler from the oven.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chase says dryly.

Thirteen looks like she’s about to strangle Chase. “Do we have any idea when this storm will be done?”

“Snow ending by midnight, winds decreasing, low overnight temperatures,” Sarah says, and puts the cobbler on a trivet to cool a bit. Everyone looks at her. “Psychic consultations are a wonderful thing when your power’s out,” she says, and sprinkles some cinnamon over the crust. “But NOAA weather radios that run on batteries are even better.”

“How about tomorrow?” Thirteen puts down her fork. Greg notes the action but says nothing; it’s not his job to point out the tiny tremor in the young woman’s hand.

“It’ll be clear and sunny.” Sarah is concerned, Greg can hear it threaded through her words. It can’t be the weather, which has begun to improve at last; it has to be the visitors and the length of their stay. “The plows will be out and so will the utility crews, most likely as soon as the snow stops.” She turns to get some dessert plates from the cupboard. “Y’all will probably be able to head home in another day or so.”

“We still need to talk,” Reynard says, and reaches for another slice of bread.

“After supper,” Sarah says, and sets the plates on the counter with a little more force than is needed.

Once everything is cleared away Greg, Sarah and Reynard head to the office. The stove offers a bit of heat but not much, since at the moment this is not an essential room with no vulnerabilities like pipes to worry about.

“Should we post a guard?” Greg asks in a conspiratorial whisper as Sarah shuts the door behind her. She gives him a quick grin, then turns to Reynard.

“Speak,” she says. “Make it fast and don’t repeat any of this to the other two, or so help me I’ll blister your bottom good.”

“Uh . . . okay,” Reynard says. He looks a little startled. “What’s going on? Why all the secrecy?”

“They’re spies for Sauron,” Greg says in a deep, mordant cadence. Sarah bites her lip and shifts her feet.

“Hmm. Bizarre.”  Reynard shrugs and takes a seat in Sarah’s Eames chair. “We’re on for the nerve block. The TENS unit is still doable if this craps out,” he says. His enthusiasm surfaces for a moment. “Whatever you decide, we’re ready.”

Sarah glances at Greg. He nods. “There’s something you should know first before discussing options,” she says quietly. “Doctor House had a relapse.”

Reynard’s eagerness fades. “When?”

“The end of January,” Greg says. He can’t look at either of them.

“He’s done thirty days with random searches and close observation,” Sarah says. “He’s clean. He’s also been cooperative in his treatment process. I can vouch for all actions with further confirmation from my notes if necessary.”

“We’ll need a drug test,” Reynard says after a few moments of consideration. Greg doesn’t acknowledge the relief he feels; he still struggles with the humiliation of being talked about like a lab rat. He knows it’s necessary, but that doesn’t make it less galling. “Once that comes back we can proceed.” The younger man glances at Sarah, then at Greg. “Why doesn’t Gene know?”

“I haven’t asked my patient if it’s okay to share this with him,” Sarah says. Greg feels the familiar clench in his gut ease a bit. He lifts his gaze to hers.

“Might as well give Gunney the full story,” he says. She nods.

“Okay.” Reynard sits back a bit. “So we do the drug screen and then the block.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Greg says. Actually he’s researched endoscopic thoracic sympathectomies in every journal and website article and message board he can find, and he hasn’t liked what he’s discovered. Empirical evidence of complications post-surgery have increased dramatically since he first read up on the procedure some years ago. The most common side effects—changes in sweating, vascular responses, heart rate and physical reaction to exercise—are not acceptable. He knows Reynard is an excellent surgeon, the kid has a list of accolades a mile long; he also knows cutters live to cut.

“What’s up?” Reynard looks concerned now.

“I want to try TENS first,” Greg says.

“Okay,” Reynard says, much to Greg’s surprise. “I can get you one of the new hybrid units. They’re a thing of beauty, man, a thing of beauty.”

“I doubt that a black box with multiple leads and big patches qualifies as beautiful,” Greg says. Reynard grins at him.

“When it delivers you out of pain you’ll think differently,” he says. “About seventy-five percent of my patients using TENS have significant ongoing reduction in moderate to severe pain. The latest models have presets but with a wider range so you can do more fine-tuning, and the boxes are a lot smaller.” He steeples his fingers. “You’ve been reading up on sympathectomy complications. The numbers look bad, but I keep a close eye on my patients and the number of reports of side effects is fairly small. In my opinion it’s still a good risk.”

“I'd rather avoid surgery if possible. Been there,” Greg says. Reynard nods.

“Gotcha. Well, we said at the beginning TENS was the logical first step. Come in next week and we’ll do the drug test and get that out of the way, then we’ll get you rigged up and ready to rumble.”

“Nice alliteration,” Greg says as they get ready to exit the room. “You probably write really bad poetry too.”

“Total slam,” the kid says. “As soon as the power’s back we’ll set up the appointment.” He steps out and Greg shuts the door behind him, then leans against it, to face Sarah.

“You didn’t tell him I OD’ed.” 

“No, I didn’t.” She’s as calm as a lake.

“I can’t wait to hear the reasoning behind your omission,” he says with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

“If Will had asked me for details I would have offered them. He didn’t, so I didn’t.” She looks at him, an assessment that makes Greg uncomfortable. “You think it was a mistake, not telling him?”

“Seems you have a good idea of his response if you had.”

“Knowing Will, he would have asked you a few more questions about your state of mind, how you’re feeling now . . . and then he would have recommended you come in for a drug test before your appointment for the TENS unit fitting and configuration.”

Greg stares at her. She doesn’t back down, her face impassive.

“You’re lying,” he says, though he knows she isn’t, he just has to push a bit, make sure.

“Nope,” she says. “Want me to prove it?” Before he can say anything she ducks around him and pulls the door open a little. “Will!” she yells through the crack. “Come back, we need ya!”

When the kid is in with them again Sarah says “What would you say if I told you Doctor House OD’ed during his relapse?”

Reynard shifts his gaze from Sarah to Greg. “Were you trying to commit suicide?” he asks, completely serious.

“No,” Greg says after a short silence. “It was . . . impulse. Stupidity. I got—overwhelmed.” He pauses. “I . . . didn’t want to hurt.” He lets a little pathos creep into his words just to see what reaction he’ll get.

“Dude. I may look inexperienced, but I know when I’m being played.” For the first time Reynard’s voice holds impatience. “Do you think anything like that will happen again?”

“Pointless question,” Greg snaps.

“Well, how are you feeling? Any better or worse than you did when you OD’ed?”

“I’m absolutely sodden with bliss,” he says, and glares at the younger man. Reynard glances at Sarah, who puts up a hand.

“Talk to him, not me,” she says.

“So seriously,” Reynard says, turning back to Greg, “how are you now?”

“Better,” Greg says reluctantly after a few moments of silence. The kid nods.

“Okay. Then we’ll do the drug test and the TENS fitting as planned.” He glances at Sarah, brows raised. “Anything else? I was about to grab a beer and flirt with the _chica_.”

“Chase isn’t divorced yet,” Greg says. Reynard rolls his eyes and Sarah chuckles.

“No, that’s it. Thanks.” When the young guy leaves she folds her arms and smirks at Greg in triumph.

“Yeah yeah,” he says, scowls at her. “Big fuckin' deal.”

“Getting a TENS unit is a good thing,” she says. Her amusement fades a bit. “You do know that, don’t you?” Greg doesn’t answer her. He should feel excited, maybe even happy, but all he can manage is a sense of apprehension. “You’re afraid it’ll fail like the ketamine did,” Sarah says softly. “It might, but I don’t think so.”

“So you really are all-knowing. No wonder you’re making the big bucks,” he says, deliberately nasty now.

“No,” she says. “I’m observant.” She moves beside him. “May I touch you?”

He waits a long time before he nods yes. Her hand comes to rest on his upper back, light as air.

“Give it a try,” she says. “Remember, you have other options. Gene will be home soon and you can sit down with him to go over your pain protocols as well.”

“You don’t have to comfort me,” he mutters.

“I’m reminding you of things you know very well but have forgotten for the moment,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice. “It’s not comfort, it’s self-preservation.”

He can’t help but smile. “Good to know you have your priorities straight.”

“Always do, son.” She gives him a slow, gentle rub, then removes her hand. “Think we’ve been in here long enough to start some rumors?”

“Maybe just a little longer. It’ll boost my reputation,” he says, and she laughs.

“Come on, let’s go babysit the kids. I’ll make popcorn if you do hand shadows.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verse Thirteen quotes is from the poem Brown Penny, by W.B. Yeats.

Remy leaned back against the bed and watched the flames in the fireplace as they flickered and danced. She was tired, but in a pleasant sort of way; she could feel night draw close as the shadows deepened.

As a concession to Doctor Goldman and House, who were (presumably) asleep downstairs, Will and Chase had congregated in Remy's room. It was certainly warmer, but the intimacy of the setting disturbed her. She wasn't sure it was such a good idea. _I don't want to encourage either one of them_.

"Penny for your thoughts," Will said. He sat next to her with the six-string, his long legs stretched out in front of him. In the easy chair across from them Chase rolled his eyes. Remy sent him a warning glare. He returned it with one of his own. He looked pissed off, as if he had planned to have her to himself or something. The thought made her uneasy.

"We should go to bed." Too late she realized what she'd said and tried to correct her mistake. "I mean . . . it's getting late."

"It's okay," Will said. His smile glimmered in the semi-darkness. "I know what you meant." He strummed a soft chord. Remy watched his hands, fascinated by the way his lean fingers found the right places on the strings without effort or hesitation. She barely noticed Chase leave the room; only when he returned to his seat with a fifth of whiskey in hand did she lift her gaze to his with a frown.

"Where'd you find that?"

Chase opened the bottle. "Brought it with me." He took a sizeable swallow, then handed it to Remy. "Give it a try," he said. His gaze held a challenge. "It isn't like we have to go into work tomorrow."

"I'm not getting drunk," she said, but took the bottle anyway and raised it to her lips. The whiskey was smooth and smoky, with a hint of sweetness beneath the burn of alcohol. "Nice," she said. "Why'd you bring it?"

"I answer your question, you answer one of mine," Chase said. Remy felt a surge of irritation. _He keeps turning everything into a game,_ she thought. _Ever since Cameron left him he's been like this._ Aloud she said

"I haven't played Truth or Dare since high school." _And I'm not telling anyone how good I was at it either._

"Now's your chance to re-cultivate some mad skills," Chase said. He gave Will a perfunctory glance. "You in?"

For answer Will set the guitar aside and accepted the bottle from Remy. As he did so his fingers brushed hers, soft as a moth's wing. Remy shivered at the little caress. _He just copped a feel right in front of Chase,_ she thought, and was both startled and amused at the realization that she didn't mind. "Okay, answer the question," she said aloud.

"It was intended as a gift for House," Chase said, "but on second thought it seems a little inappropriate." He gave her a significant look. "Your turn. Why did you really come up here with me?"

"You have to use the phrase," she said. He sighed and cocked his head.

"Fine. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," she said promptly.

"Why did you come with me?"

"To see if House was all right," she said, and turned to Will. "Truth or dare."

"Truth," he said.

"What are House's chances for becoming pain-free?"

"HIPAA regs and doctor-patient confidentiality prevent me from answering that," Will said. "Ask House, not me." He extended the bottle to Chase. "Truth or dare?"

"You didn't answer her question," Chase said. Will shook his head.

"Can't do it."

"It's okay," Remy said quickly. "Don't worry about it."

Will nodded and looked at Chase. "So what's it to be?"

"Dare," Chase said. Remy groaned.

"Come on, House and Goldman are probably asleep by now. Besides, it's too cold to mess around."

"Spoilsport," Chase said. "Since when have you been Miss Prim and Proper?" He sent Will a cool look. "Dare," he said again.

"Okay," Will said. "I dare you to tell us why you're really here."

Chase made a disgusted noise. "That's not a real dare. Don't be an asshat."

"Dude, it's legit," Will said. "Put up or shut up."

"Fine. _Dude._ " Chase took a swig of whiskey. "I was asked by someone else to check on House." He gave the bottle to Remy, who didn't take it.

"That's not the whole truth," she said.

"That's all you're going to get," Chase said. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," Remy said, and took the whiskey.

"How bad is the progression now?"

She stared at Chase, unprepared for the hurt his question caused. He shrugged in apparent nonchalance, but she caught the quick look he sent Will. _Using my disease to score points against someone else,_ she thought, and her surprise turned to anger. "Bad enough," she said.

"That's not an answer," Chase said.

"That's all you're going to get," Remy snapped, and slugged a large hit of whiskey. Her eyes watered as she handed off the bottle to Will. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he said.

"How old were you when you graduated from medical school?"

Will looked uncomfortable. "Uh . . . twenty-two."

"For fuck's sake," Chase said, clearly disgusted. Will shrugged.

"I always knew I'd be a doctor. It seemed like a good idea to get started early on." He said it simply, no bragging or false modesty; it was a statement of fact. He sipped the whiskey and gave the bottle to Chase. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," Chase said.

"Who asked you to check on House?" Now Will sounded annoyed, almost angry.

"No way," Chase said. "Forget it." His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. _He's trying to pick a fight,_ Remy thought.

"Answer the question," she said aloud. "If you don't I have a great dare for Will to use. You won't like it."

"Hey, I'm the one who wanted to do dares and not truth," Chase said. He spread his arms in an expansive gesture. "Bring it on."

"If you don't answer the question you have to strip, go outside and run two laps around the house," Remy said. Will bit his lip and looked down at his hands, but his shoulders shook very slightly.

"It's freezing out there! I've been drinking! Are you trying to kill me?" Chase protested. He looked pained.

"It has to be a good dare or why bother?" Remy said. "You're the one who said bring it on."

"Fine," Chase growled. "Truth, then." He took a large slug of whiskey and coughed. "Wilson."

Remy stared at him, a little shocked but intrigued too. "He's supposed to be House's best friend!"

"He's worried," Chase said. He stole a second swallow and thrust the bottle at Remy. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," she said on a sigh as she took the whiskey.

"Are you gonna sleep with Doogie here?" Chase's tone was almost contemptuous. Remy set the bottle down with a thump.

"Stop it," she snapped.

"It's a fair question." Chase sat back, arms folded. "You think _your_ dare was bad, just wait—"

"Yeah okay, fine!" She took a deep breath. "I have no plans to sleep with anyone tonight," she said. She didn't look at Will as she picked up the whiskey. The mouthful was larger than she had intended but somehow it didn't seem to matter that much. Her hand shook a little as she gave the bottle to Will. "Truth or dare," she said.

"Truth," he said.

"Who taught you how to play guitar?" she asked. Chase tipped his head back and pretended to snore.

"My mother," Will said. He sipped the whiskey, his expression thoughtful. "She had this old Gibson she found in the trash. It was pretty beat up and all, had a hole in the front, but it held true when you tuned it and the fingerboard was in good shape. I don't know where she found the money for strings. The first song she taught me was 'Froggy Went A-Courtin'." He smiled a little and glanced at Chase. "Passed out already? What a lightweight."

Chase opened one eye, straightened and reached for the bottle. "I could drink both of you under the table," he said.

"I don't think that's anything to brag about," Will said. "Brain cells and livers don't come cheap, man." He tilted his head. "So, truth or dare?"

"Truth," Chase said.

"What do you get out of being this Wilson guy's errand boy?" Will folded his arms across his spare middle and stared at Chase in challenge. "It sucks being a pawn in another person's chess game. Take it from someone who knows."

"You don't know jack, you—you tosser," Chase muttered, and dumped a substantial amount of whiskey down his throat. His accent was stronger now, his face flushed. When he held out the bottle his hand wasn't steady. Remy snatched it from his grip.

"You're already buzzed," she said, and frowned at him.

"So what if I am? Isn't that the whole point of this s-stupid game?" He sat back. "Truth or daaaaare." He drew the last word out as he watched her.

"Truth, Robert," she said, weary of his relentless push.

"Fine, you coward." He smirked at her. "Ever have any hot-chick threesomes with Foreman?"

"No." She took a swig and passed the whiskey to Will. "Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he said to her surprise. Chase gave a bark of harsh laughter.

"What do y'know, even this twat understands how to play the game better than you do!"

Will ignored him. Remy swallowed. "Okay," she said. "Okay . . . I dare you to . . . tell me about your last girlfriend."

"Aw, shit," Will said as Chase gave her a raspberry. "Yeah, okay. She was an RN, the charge nurse in NICU. We met at Holy Redeemer, she was working the graveyard end of her rotation and I got called in for a late round, a consult with that moron Fenner. One of his patients was tanking big time and he was trying to cover his ass." He shrugged. "We got to talking—me and the RN, I mean. Exchanged numbers, went out to dinner and a movie, all that stuff."

"What happened?" Remy asked.

"She broke it off." He leaned against the bed. "Said she didn't want to talk shop all the time. The thing is, she was the one who kept bringing up work. I was happy to leave it behind." His expressive mouth lifted in a smile. "Too bad it didn't work out. I liked her. She had nice tits."

"Oh, good grief," Remy said, torn between exasperation and amusement. Will glanced at her. His smile widened a little and revealed a small dimple in his cheek.

"You asked," he said, and stretched out to give the bottle to Chase. "Truth or dare?"

Chase grabbed the whiskey. "Forget it. You're both a pair of w-wimps." He got to his feet and promptly fell back into the chair. "Shit!" He tried again with the same result.

"Come on," Remy said, resigned to what lay ahead. She rose, staggered a bit herself, and helped Chase to stand. Together they wove their way to the door.

The hallway was cold, and the floor beneath her feet even colder. Remy hurried to Chase's door, half-dragged him in her eagerness to be rid of him. To her disgust she found the fire on his side was out, not even an ember left.

"You were supposed to keep an eye on things." She dumped him on the unmade bed and pried the bottle out of his hand. "It's freezing in here!"

"So s-start a fire," Chase said, and flopped on his side. "Start one with me," he said, and gave her what he obviously thought was his best come-hither look. Remy rolled her eyes.

"You've got to be kidding," she said, and turned away to clear the fireplace of ashes.

Ten minutes later the kindling was well alight and the logs had started to catch. Remy got up and grabbed the mantel to steady herself as the room spun a little. Slowly she replaced the screen and approached the bed. Chase was draped on his back, apparently asleep. She stood over him for a moment, indecisive. _I can't leave him like this,_ she thought. _I have to at least get him on his stomach so if he vomits he won't aspirate it._ With that she stooped to turn him over. As she grasped his arm his eyes opened. His hands slid up to bring her down to him.

"Remy," he said. She winced at the blast of whiskey fumes and pushed him away.

"No," she said. "You're still married, you idiot."

"So . . . so what? Not like Cam'ron's gonna find out. She dossen care anyway." The wealth of pain under the bitterness in his slurred words tugged at her but provided a warning as well. "I need you," he whispered, and lifted his head to kiss her. Remy pulled back.

"No you don't. Go to sleep," she said, and heaved him onto his belly. Chase groaned and turned his face away. She yanked the comforter from the foot of the bed and threw it over him. He didn't move as she left.

Will still had the six-string when she returned. Remy paused in the doorway for a moment. His head was tipped back, eyes closed as he picked the chord and tapped it gently to make it ring. In the firelight his thick, dark brown hair sparked with copper and auburn lights, a tangle of waves that haloed his lean features and accented his high, broad cheekbones. It was the face of a dreamer, a poet. _Brown penny,_ she thought, and smiled a little as she remembered his comment earlier.

"Why are you smiling?" He looked up at her, his dark blue eyes bright with the reflected firelight.

"Just thinking of a poem," she said, and sat next to him. He raised his brows.

"Which one?"

"Yeats," she said. He rested his hands on the guitar and turned to her slightly.

"Do you remember the title?"

"'Brown Penny'," she said. He nodded.

"I know it.

_"I whispered, 'I am too young,'_

_And then, 'I am old enough';_

_Wherefore I threw a penny_

_To find out if I might love._

_'Go and love, go and love, young man,_

_If the lady be young and fair.'_

_Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,_

_I am looped in the loops of her hair."_

She looked at him. He returned her gaze, his own steady, warm. On a sudden impulse Remy leaned forward slowly, tilted her head a bit and kissed him. He tasted of whiskey, his lips a little chapped from the cold air; his breath fanned over her cheek, a slow exhalation she found exhilarating in some inexplicable way. The kiss deepened as his hand came up to clasp her neck with the gentlest of touches.

"Truth or dare," she said softly when they moved apart. Will put a finger to her lips. Without a word he set the guitar aside and helped her to her feet. When his arms went about her she thought of Chase for a moment, passed out in the other room. She hadn't pursued a relationship with him, though he'd angled for one since Cameron's departure; office romances were a bad idea, something she knew from personal experience. _Now I have another reason to say no._ On that glad thought she lifted her face for another kiss, and more besides.


	11. Chapter 11

_March 5th_

Rob stirred as unconsciousness slowly lifted. He smelled stale whiskey and frowned. _What’s Mum doing up this early? She never makes it out of bed before I have to go to school._ The muzzy thought didn’t feel right though.

“Wakey wakey.” Someone spoke very close by. It definitely wasn’t his mother; the raspy baritone held a familiar edge. His frown deepened as he started to roll away from the source of irritation. A second later his vision filled with a spectacular display of fireworks as pain exploded inside his cranium. He curled in on himself. “What a shame, you look like a three day old turd. That’s just unfortunate on so many levels. Get up!” A hand grabbed his arm and shook him hard. Nausea flooded Rob’s body.

“Don’t . . .” He crawled to the edge of the bed in a vain attempt at escape.

“Yeah, because asking me to stop always works,” the voice said in a tone much too amused for Rob’s taste. “I’m not going away anytime soon. Neither is that twenty megaton bomb that’s detonating in your head right now. Might as well get this over with.”

Bits and pieces of the previous evening’s activities began to turn up for review—the first hit of whiskey, the impatience in Remy’s eyes when she spoke to him, Will’s expression as he touched her hand. Slowly Rob rolled over, eyes shut tight as the room spun and his head throbbed in agony. Only one person would be cruel enough to torment him during a hangover. “House,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Heeeey, right first time!” A hand smacked Rob’s knee, and reaction howled through his body. “Looks like whatever plan you had to get the bike rider fixing your flat tire wasn’t successful.”

Rob worked his way through the metaphor and chose to be offended. “Screw you,” he said eventually.

“Nope, I’m not available either.” House sounded almost cheerful. “So when exactly did you move into the active-alcoholic phase?”

“I’m . . . not. Haven’t.”

“Denial is a wonderful thing. It lets you get away with all sorts of cool stuff, at least until your liver craps out.”

“You oughta know,” Rob sneered, and regretted it when his stomach tightened. He slid his head over the edge of the mattress, struggled to hold everything in. He heard House rise and move away swiftly. A moment later something was shoved under his face.

“It would be really rude of you to ruin the carpet,” House said. “Use this.”

It was a humiliation to puke into a cute little rattan wastebasket. At least it had a plastic bag liner in it. The stench of sour liquor made him think of things he’d pushed away for years.

_(He knew better than to expect she’d be awake, but he crept into her room anyway. She lay with her face turned away from him, arms akimbo like a broken doll’s. She smelled of gin, her clothing wrinkled and limp._

_“Mum?” He sat next to her, put a hand on her back. Her breathing was slow and erratic, but at least she was alive. On a sigh he got up and left her. It would be hours before she woke, and even then she would just look for another bottle, not him. Only when Dad was home did she pretend her priorities were different, but she wouldn’t have to bother tonight; his father would work late, as usual. )_

After he’d emptied out, he wedged his face into the crook of his arm. “Go away.”

“Here.” Something nudged Rob’s hand. He cracked one eye open.  It was the whiskey bottle, about a third full. “Hair of the dog. It helps.”

Rob stared at it. After a moment he slowly sat up a little, took the bottle, opened it and swigged a substantial amount of the contents. It burned all the way down, which felt good but in a bad way. “Proving a point?” he asked after a few moments. His tongue was thick and clumsy and his eyes couldn’t quite focus, but at least the nausea had started to retreat.

“Don’t have to.” House pulled up a chair and propped his feet on the mattress.

“It isn’t about Cameron,” Rob said after a time and another swallow of whiskey. “Or Dibala, or you going off the rails. I don’t really know why . . .”

“Doesn’t matter.” House crossed his legs. “There’s always a reason. Or there isn’t. What matters is what you decide to do about it. Or what you don’t.”

“I can stop,” Rob said. He set the bottle aside, though he knew it didn’t prove his point.

“No you can’t.” House looked away. “Don’t even bother to go there. It’s too boring to meander through the usual dance of denials and accusations. Let’s get right to the nitty-gritty, as we used to say back when hippies ruled Haight-Ashbury.”

“Which is?” Rob snapped. His heart pounded in time with his head.

“You tell me.”

“You want me to say I’m an alcoholic because of one night of drinking?” Rob rubbed his eyes and groaned as pain thudded through his skull.

“It hasn’t been just one night lately though, has it?” House folded his hands over his middle. “This pattern is becoming more frequent. Maybe you aren’t getting drunk every time, but you’re buzzed enough to relax or fall asleep or forget—“

“I’m not you!” Rob said loudly, and winced. “Okay? I’m not you.”

There was a brief silence. “You mean you’re not a burned-out, pathetic jerk who’s lost everything through his inherent weaknesses and retreated from the world in some last-ditch attempt to get his groove back,” House said quietly. Rob squinted at him. _That was quite a speech,_ he thought. _He meant it too._ The sadness that realization caused was a bit of a surprise. Aloud he said

“Something like that.”

“Well yeah,” House said. “You’re just starting out on that ever-so-amusing and delightful journey.” He gave Rob a direct look. “You won’t have as many years to work with because you’re genetically predisposed, I think. You’ll give it a good run though. Fifteen, maybe twenty before enough of your liver hardens and the last brain cell kicks the bucket.” He tilted his head. “Or you might stir up enough free radicals to get some really good cancer on, like your old man. I don’t think he wanted you to follow in his footsteps in quite that fashion, though.”

“I’m _not_ an alcoholic,” Rob said. He rubbed sweaty palms on his thighs and glanced at the bottle. “Things have been a little rough lately—“

“Uh uh.” House shook his head. “Can’t have it both ways. You said this kind of behavior wasn’t brought on by recent events—now you’re saying it is.”

“What d’you care?” Rob muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  

“I don’t.” House swung his legs to the floor. “But you should.” He got to his feet. “Talk to Doctor Goldman,” he said quietly. “And tell Wilson you’re out of the game from now on. You’re too emotionally fucked up to be an effective spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Rob protested, but House had already turned his back and left the room. He closed the door with a snap that echoed like a rifle shot around the inside of Rob’s brain.

For a long time he sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the house gradually come to life. Sunlight began to filter in around the blinds; the room air was chill, the fire died down to embers once more. He had a vague memory of Remy crouched by the hearth as she added wood to kindling, her face illuminated by the soft light. She’d dumped him on the bed like a sack of potatoes, obviously glad to be rid of him. _She and Reynard probably kept each other warm,_ he thought, and sighed. Well, if she had he’d pushed her into it by acting the fool. Now he had a long ride home with someone who probably couldn’t stand the sight of him, and a meeting with Wilson and Cuddy that would not be pleasant for anyone in attendance.

He was interrupted by a click and the sound of forced air in the heat vents. A few moments later someone knocked on his door.

“Electricity’s back on,” Will called. “There’ll be hot water in an hour if you need it.” Rob flinched and wrapped his arms around himself. The idea of a scrub-up under hot water held no appeal whatsoever, but then neither did a journey downstairs when he still smelled like a distillery gone bad.

After an hour he opted for a shower. That meant he was able to show up with clean damp hair brushed back from his face and his teeth and tongue mostly free of the taint of vomit and liquor. He approached Sarah as she sat at the kitchen table with Thirteen as they shared tea and fresh-baked rolls.

“Doctor Goldman, could we talk in private please?” he asked quietly. He didn’t look at her companion. Without a word Sarah rose, and they went to the office.


	12. Chapter 12

Once they were in the office with the door shut Rob leaned against it, arms folded. “I may need some help,” he said. Sarah sat down in what appeared to be a smaller version of House’s Eames chair. She looked him over. He endured her scrutiny; he knew she was well within her rights to doubt him.

“Okay,” she said. Rob took a deep breath.

“My mum was a drinker, and . . . maybe I . . .” He paused, surprised to feel his throat tighten. “I don’t know what I should do,” he said, though he knew very well what came next.

“You think you’re an alcoholic,” Sarah said. There was no judgment in her tone, no condemnation. Rob said nothing. “Has this ever happened to you before?”

“Drinking to get drunk?” He started to shrug and thought better of it. “Just the usual uni stuff. Nothing since then—I mean . . .”

“You don’t drink to the point of blackout,” Sarah said. “That’s what your mother did, probably. You’re more the type to have a weekend session, mostly getting numb and staying that way, not quite drunk but close enough. You’re worried though, because those sessions have been spilling over into evenings after work lately, haven’t they?” She smiled a little at his surprise. “Physicians and healers are more prone to addiction because of the nature of their profession. I’ve worked with several doctors over the past few years.”

“I’m not there yet,” Rob said, driven to defiance for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge. Sarah nodded.

“Yes you are. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me in front of Doctor Hadley.”

Rob looked at his feet. “I’ve already messed up things with her,” he said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“You’ll have the ride home to talk about what happened,” Sarah said. “I think you’ll find she’s a good listener if you give her a chance.” She turned to her desk, took a small address book out of the top drawer and wrote down some names and numbers on the back of what looked like a business card.

“Here are a few places to start,” she said, and handed him the card. “I know these counselors personally, they’re good at what they do and they’ll help you in any way possible. You can also give me a call anytime as well.”

Rob studied her. “How do I know you won’t tell House what I tell you?”

“That’s a reasonable question under the circumstances. Let’s do it this way: anything you disclose about why you’re here is open information,” Sarah said. “That’s definitely Doctor House’s concern and he needs to know. Personal items fall under confidentiality.” She glanced at Rob. “Turn about’s fair play, is that what has you worried? You came here to do some digging, now it’s your privacy up for grabs?” She leaned back in her chair. “I don’t play that sort of game. That puts the ball back in your court. It’s time for you to be completely honest with me and Doctor House about why you’re really here.”

It was pointless to keep up the pretense. “Wilson’s worried,” Rob said. “So is Cuddy. They’ve dealt with House for years, they know how resistant he is to anyone offering help. They’re afraid you’ve taken on too much, that you’ve lost your perspective or let House con you.” It was the official stance, the one he was to give during any potential interrogations like this one. It was also the truth, as far as it went; that made it more believable. _I should add rank and serial number,_ he thought.

“It’s very kind of them both to be concerned,” Sarah said. Her soft voice held a touch of acerbity. “But that’s not the whole reason you’re here and we both know it.” She gave him a direct look. “Tell.” There was something in those clear sea-green eyes, a combination of absolute comprehension and a silent warning that suggested he’d be wise to do as she asked.

“I . . . uh . . . I talked to Lucas,” he said, and looked anywhere but at Sarah. After a moment she got to her feet, moved past him to what appeared to be House’s desk and rolled the larger Eames chair from its place to a spot about three feet away from her smaller version.

“Sit,” she said. It was not a request. Rob obeyed. He winced as his head protested.

“What does Lucas want?” Sarah asked once he was seated. All the gentleness was gone now. She sounded cold, businesslike, and under it all very angry. Rob swallowed.

“He’s . . . I think he’s trying to take House out of the picture,” he said.

“That’s not exactly news.” Sarah folded her arms. “What’s his method?”

Rob hesitated. “This is just speculation on my part, but it’s possible he wants to destroy House’s credibility for good by . . .  by sabotaging his recovery.”

Absolute silence fell in the room. Rob did his best not to fidget. _That sounds really awful when you say it out loud,_ he thought.

“Yet you still came here,” Sarah said. “Even though you know any information you might gather could do serious harm.”

“You don’t understand!” Rob sat up a bit and winced. “House is capable of masterminding very weird and complicated games to get what he wants. I wasn’t sure—none of us knew if he was really making progress or just playing you to get his suspension lifted. I came to find out for myself.”

Sarah stared at him as if he had two heads. “And if you had discovered Doctor House was playing me, what then? You’d have given that information to Lucas without a qualm, knowing it would be used for such a terrible purpose?” For a moment she looked sick. Rob dropped his gaze to the floor.

“I don’t know what I would have done,” he said, and it was the truth. “It doesn’t matter now anyway, I can see House isn’t faking it. He’s . . . better.” It was an inadequate word for the change Rob saw in the older man; the desperation and near-mania behind every action was gone.

“How truly magnanimous of you to concede that much,” Sarah said. Every word was as clear and cold as ice. “Did it ever occur to any of y’all involved in this idiocy that even if Doctor House _was_ manipulating me, it might be a part of his process and that I might actually have enough brains to know it? You rarely progress from point A to point B in treatment. There are quite a few twists and turns and detours in between.”

“You don’t know him,” Rob said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You haven’t worked for him for years the way I have. He’s totally amoral, he’ll do anything to get what he wants. One of the first things he ever said to me was ‘Everybody lies’.”

“He’s right,” Sarah said. “Humans lie like they breathe air. They even lie to themselves.” She was looking at him when she made that last remark, he knew it.

“So you’re as cynical as he is.”

“I didn’t say lying was the only thing we do,” Sarah said. “It is a part of our nature though, something we don’t usually like to acknowledge. Doctor House is simply being honest. But we’re getting off-point.” She paused. “I find it deeply distressing that you have no problem participating in a plot designed to harm a man who’s been your mentor and something of a father figure over the years—“

“He’s not my dad!” Rob snapped. He winced. “No way do I think of him like that. House isn’t a father to anyone, he’s not capable of it.”

Sarah studied him. “And you think that belief gives you the right to do what you’ve done?”

“No—I don’t know!” He wished his head wouldn’t pound so hard. “I—I was—I’m still angry with him for just disappearing like that—for breaking up the Diagnostics department and leaving us stranded. I worked hard to get that fellowship! So did everyone else he just left behind, dammit!” _He didn’t even show up for the wedding._

“How old were you when your mother went away?” Sarah’s voice was quiet.

Rob froze. “What?”

“You were young, probably. You came home from school and she wasn’t there, or you woke up one morning and your father said something like _Your mother’s gone to visit some relatives_. You didn’t see her for months, maybe as long as a year. And then she was back—no explanation, no nothing. Even worse, she was different. She wasn’t the mother you knew, but no one would ever talk about it. It was just something that happened, maybe more than once.” 

“This isn’t about that,” he said after a time. “You think I’m projecting, or whatever it’s called.” He glared at her.

“I think when Doctor House left and the department was broken up, it brought back painful memories,” Sarah said. “It caused a lot of confusion and bewilderment and under all of that, plenty of anger. Perfectly normal reactions, even for someone who doesn’t believe he has a father figure in his life.” She sat up. “It’s also natural to harbor thoughts of revenge or retaliation against the person who created so much chaos. But taking steps to act on those thoughts is another story. What you’re involved in verges on real evil.”

A hot surge of dread pushed through him. _Oh my god, she knows._ “He told you, didn’t he?” Rob gripped the arms of the chair. “About Dibala. That’s part of the reason why you’re angry with me.”

Sarah looked a little surprised. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t preach to me about honesty and truthfulness and then lie yourself!” His voice rose. “I know House told you what happened! He—he figured it out somehow, he always does, dammit!” He stood with the intention to flee the room, and flinched as pain echoed through his body.

“Doctor Chase—Robert.” Sarah spoke quietly. “No one’s said anything to me about whatever it is you’re referring to. You have my word.” She rose and faced him. “Please sit.”

Slowly Rob obeyed. He pushed a lock of damp hair out of his eyes and stared at her. She stood before him, a slender woman bundled into a thick wool sweater and jeans with fuzzy pink socks on her feet, bright auburn curls tamed into an untidy braid, her pale face a little smudged here and there with tiredness. She looked everyday ordinary, and yet there was something, some sense of calm or stillness within her, that called to him in a way he could not define.

After a few moments Sarah moved her chair a little closer and sat down. She extended her hands. With some hesitation he reached out and clasped them. Her touch was firm but gentle.

“Please tell me,” she said. He hesitated, afraid to begin. “Whatever this secret is you’re keeping, it’s destroying you. Maybe I can help.”

“I killed him—Dibala,” he said finally, and waited for her to pull away. Sarah didn’t flinch.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

He told her then, all of it; he spewed it out the same way he’d emptied his stomach earlier. By the end he shook so hard he could barely form the words.

“Why did you do this?” Sarah asked when at last he fell silent.

“It was the right action,” he said, and winced at the empty defiance in his words. “One person’s death would prevent hundreds of thousands dying . . . I couldn’t _not_ do it.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t hesitate.

“Yet you feel it was evil.” Sarah made it a statement, not a question.

“It was murder.” He gripped her hands, unable to stop himself. “I killed a man.”

“You’re a physician, a healer,” she said. “To deliberately take away another person’s life is especially abhorrent for you. And yet in this case, to let that person live would have meant condemning many others to suffering and death.”

“You think I don’t go over and over it in my mind? That I don’t feel how crazy this whole situation is, every moment of every day?” His chest tightened. “There’s no reconciling this . . . no way to make it right, is there?”

“Have the courage of your convictions,” Sarah said. Rob couldn’t look at her. “What’s done is done. You’re stuck with the consequences of actions taken. That means you’ll have to live with two opposing viewpoints fighting it out in your head for the rest of your life.”

The thought horrified him. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I _can’t_.”

“Yes you can. Many people do.” For a moment she sounded almost sad. “You’ve already acted, Robert. Fear and guilt won’t serve any purpose other than to keep you helpless and miserable.” Her fingers tightened gently on his. “Own what you’ve done. Feel remorse for the life you took. Make amends in any way you can—turn yourself in, if you believe that’s the right course. But stand by what you did.” She gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “It’s a lesson I learned myself recently. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it does give you perspective.” She paused. “You might consider talking with Doctor House about this. I think his counsel would be worth seeking.”

“He’ll rip my head off and pee in the stump,” Rob muttered.

“Probably.” Sarah gave him a slight smile. “But considering the shape you’re in at the moment, it might actually be an improvement.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah, more than likely.” He felt awkward and a bit relieved.

“I have only one request.” Sarah paused. “Tell Lucas anything you want.”

Rob opened his eyes. “What?”

“Tell Lucas anything you want,” Sarah said again. “Tell him we know what he’s up to, what he wants, all of it. Feel free.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“Doesn’t matter why.” Sarah loosed his hands with care and stood. Rob did the same. “If you’re ready for some coffee there’s a fresh pot waiting, or I can do some tea if you’d rather.”

“Coffee’s fine.” He turned with his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks.”

 “You’re welcome.” She gave him a steady look. “You’re a good man, Doctor Chase. You’ve got the potential to be a better one. Keep that in mind now and then, okay?”

Rob returned her look. “You really believe that?”

“I know it.” She put a hand on his arm, light and comforting. “Well done, Robert. Let’s see if we’ve got some dry toast and Tylenol to go with that coffee.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lines of dialogue House remembers at the end of the chapter are from the episode 'Birthmarks', written by Doris Egan.

_March 6th_

The house is silent at last, emptied now of visitors. Chase and Thirteen had departed first, though there had been a telling little scene between Doctors Hadley and Reynard—an exchange of numbers, addys and a few discreet kisses too, very sweet. Chase was nowhere to be found; he’d gone out to warm up the car, or at least that was the official story. At least he still knows how to make himself scarce; he might not be a total write-off just yet.

Silence is actually a relative term at the moment however. The washer chugs away with the first load of sheets, pillowcases and towels, the kitchen radio is on, and Sarah is upstairs to remake beds.

As for Greg, he’s crashed out on the couch with his Christmas-present GameBoy at his side to fend off boredom if needed. The satellite tv service is still out, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. He’s got plenty to think about. The date has been set for his visit to Will’s office. A week from now he’ll be fitted for a TENS unit in conjunction with ongoing pain management. The knowledge brings both anticipation and apprehension. The drug regimen Gene crafted has helped tremendously to lower Greg’s numbers on the pain scale—they’re down to a solid two on a good day and four or five on bad days, with breakthrough significantly reduced--but his stomach has started to rebel. His lack of appetite contributes to this problem, though he eats when he takes his meds (mainly because Sarah makes sure he does so). Using TENS could help allay gastritis; he should be able to reduce his drug load. There will be tradeoffs, of course; there are no decent studies out yet on the long-term effects of continuous nerve stimulation. He also knows from his experience with various patients over the years that skin irritation or burns are common when using electrodes, sticky pads, gel and/or paper tape. But he’ll worry about those problems when he comes to them. 

 _But what if it doesn’t work?_ That’s the question that comes back to haunt him. His experience with ketamine has him afraid that TENS use will follow the same path.

“Hey.” He jumps when Sarah speaks. She sits in the easy chair next to the couch, a load of sheets in her arms. “I can feel you brooding all the way upstairs. Anything you want to talk about?”

“I was just thinking how quiet it is here with the kids gone,” he says. “Our nest is so empty now . . .” He glances at her. “We should celebrate with some smokin’ hot sex.”

“Only if your name is Gene Goldman,” Sarah says wryly.

“You can call me anything you want if it gets you off.” He gives her a leer. She rolls her eyes.

“I can think of several things to call you. What has you so worried?”

He looks away. “Wow, Ms Buzzkill. Let's trade a few more innuendoes before heading right into the un-fun stuff.” Sarah just waits for him to continue. He sighs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” she says, and puts the sheets on the floor. “You were talking with Will right before he left.”

He is silent, unwilling to give his fears form in words spoken aloud.

“There is a chance TENS won’t be effective,” Sarah says quietly. “There’s also good empirical evidence it’ll work. If it doesn’t, you can go to the next option.”

“What happens when I run out of options?” He can barely say it. “What do I do when there’s nothing left?”

“Keep searching,” she says. “You won’t be alone. Gene and I will be right there with you. We won’t give up till we find something that helps.” She says it in that simple, matter-of-fact way of hers that always eases his apprehension. Still, he has to poke at her.

“This isn’t part of your duty as my analyst.”

“I disagree,” Sarah says. “And anyway, even if it isn’t, it’s something I’d do as a friend.”

“We’re not—we’re not friends,” he says in astonishment. “I don’t know what the hell ever gave you that idea.”

“Well that’s a strange thing to say, because I consider you a friend.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Have for some time now.”

“You’re an idiot,” he says. “I’m the worst kind of person to—I’m damaged. I’ve hallucinated, overdosed on drugs, treated people like shit . . .” He trails off when Sarah chuckles.

“You’re messin’ with me, aren’t you?” she says. The native twang in her voice is sharp and clean as the fragrance of prairie grass after a rainstorm. “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to?” He looks at her. She regards him with a deep affection that surprises as much as it comforts him. “Gimme a break, son.”

“I still say you’re an idiot,” he says after a few moments.

“You’re welcome.” She bends down to pick up the sheets. “Do me a favor and check the soup. It needs something but I can’t figure out what.” As she straightens someone knocks at the door. “Damn, now who forgot their toothbrush?” She dumps the laundry on the floor once more in exasperation and heads for the front of the house.

When she returns Roz is with her. Greg covers his eyes. “I thought the nightmare was over,” he says.

“Glad to see you too, lazyass,” Roz says.

“Ouch. You should watch how you wield that razor-sharp wit of yours,” he says, and jumps when she deposits the pile of sheets on top of him.

“Make yourself useful,” Roz says. “Doesn’t Sarah do enough for you?”

“He worked hard during the blackout,” Sarah says, and removes the sheets. Roz rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Somebody had to keep the ladies satisfied.” He pulls himself up, unable to stop a sharp intake of breath when his bad leg gives a warning spasm.

“Are you okay?” Sarah asks.

“Peachy,” he growls. He limps into the kitchen, goes to the stove and lifts the lid on the soup pot. A wave of savory steam hits his nose. _Chicken, onions, carrots, celery, garlic . . ._ He peers into the depths, picks up a spoon, dips out some broth, blows on it, takes a taste. _Bay leaf . . .  no rosemary. Ahah._ He turns and nearly bumps into Roz.

“What are you doing?” she demands. Greg uses the lid as a shield for his face.

“No man can look into the face of Medusa and live,” he intones.

“Haha, very funny. You didn’t put that spoon back into the soup without washing it first, did you? I don’t want to eat your spit.” Roz takes the lid from his hands and puts it back on the pot.

“If you only knew how many times someone’s said that to me,” he says. “Except they weren’t talking about spit—“

“La la la,” Roz puts her fingers in her ears, but he’s intrigued to see the corners of her mouth curve up, and what do you know, there are those full lips she likes to hide. “TMI, big time.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” He opts for offense in place of defense. “Don't tell me you've run out of places to wire, people to annoy.”

“I came to make sure everything was okay,” she says. “It took three passes for the snowplows to get the main roads cleared, there are trees down everywhere.”

“There's no way you drove here with the roads a mess.”

“Bob dropped me off, he’s using the sleigh. It’s good exercise for the horse, and they can pull some of the smaller trees back to the farm.” Her eyes flash at him, moss-green. “You probably thought I flew here, right?”

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “On your Nimbus Two Thousand.”

“Nah, I saved up for a Firebolt.” She picks up the spoon and points it at him with a flourish. “ _Ridikkulus_!” He tilts his head and gives her a quizzical look. She lowers the spoon. “Guess you’re not a boggart. Oh well.”

That hurts just a little. He scowls at the unexpected emotion, not sure where it came from. Roz says nothing, but she looks a bit surprised by his response. She sets the spoon on the counter, turns away and goes into the living room.

“Listen, I’m gonna head over to Bob’s and make sure he’s doing okay, you know how stubborn he is about asking for help,” he hears her say to Sarah. “By the way, here’s your mail. I picked it up at the post office on the way in.”

The front door thumps a moment later, and then he hears Sarah pull up a chair to the dining room table. He adds a few grinds of smoked pepper and a generous pinch or three of rosemary to the soup, gives it a stir, lets it sit a moment, then tastes it once more. _Perfect_. He replaces the lid and heads into the other room. “It just needed a little . . .” His voice trails off. Sarah holds what appears to be a letter. Her face is white. _Gene_ , he thinks, and limps to the table. “What?” he says quietly. Her eyes flick up to his, then back to the paper.

“My mother,” she says. Greg can barely hear her. He sinks slowly into the chair opposite hers, aware of an absurd sense of relief.

“She's dead.” He waits to hear the news, but he's fairly sure he's right.

“Yeah.” Sarah takes a deep breath. “She died in her sleep. Could have been an overdose, or maybe an MI. Heart disease is pretty common on her side of the family.”

“They had to do an autopsy.” He doesn’t like the unnatural calm she displays.

“I’m sure there was one, but my cousin apparently didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” She looks at the paper. It shakes a little. “The funeral was held two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks . . .” The implication of that comment sinks in. He watches as she puts the letter on the table and folds her hands in her lap. Her lips are bloodless, her eyes enormous pools of gray; she looks ill. _Shock,_ he thinks. _She’s in shock._ Without another word he gets up, goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

A few minutes later he places a cup of tea liberally laced with whiskey in front of her. “Drink it,” he says. She looks at the cup, but does nothing. “Go on,” he says, his voice harsher than he’d meant it to be. Slowly she takes it in hand, brings it to her lips, swallows some of the hot liquid and chokes. Greg half-rises to his feet to help her but she waves him off.

“I’m all right.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers tremble.

“Get as much of that into you as you can,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

He heads for the phone and speed-dials Gene’s assistant, Thomas. “It’s House,” he says before the other man can speak. “I need to get in touch with Gene right now. Have him call me stat if not sooner. It’s not life or death but it’s urgent.”

Ten long minutes later the phone rings. “I’m here,” Gene says, his voice calm and steady. “What’s happened?”

“Your wife needs to talk with you,” Greg says, and takes the phone to Sarah. She’s managed half the tea and has a little color in her cheeks now, but when she hears Gene speak on the line she lets out a ragged breath.

“Hey love,” she says. “No, I’m okay. It’s my mom.”

He leaves her alone then, and goes to his room. By the time she knocks softly on his door he’s played through nine or ten songs and a few bits and pieces of tunes he’s worked on for a while. He gets up to let her in.

“Gene’s coming home as soon as he can manage it,” she says as she perches on the easy chair by the fire. Greg sits on the bed; he still holds the six-string.

“That’s good.”

“My family didn’t mean . . .” She looks down at her hands. “They thought they were doing what was best for everyone.”

“It wasn’t their decision to make,” Greg says roughly. “They had no right to exclude you.”

“They were afraid there would be trouble,” she says softly. “My family tends to be in denial about a lot of what happened at home. I’m not, and refuse to lie about it. The two don’t mix.”

“So rather than risk the fairly remote possibility of you cold-cocking someone during the viewing, you were uninvited to your own mother’s funeral?”

“What’s done is done.” She sounds defeated.

Silence falls in the room. He doesn’t know what to say, how to make this easier for her, or if he should even try. He remembers her comfort after the overdose, but he’s completely incapable of reciprocation.  

 _No you’re not,_ that little voice deep inside says—the same one that urged him to stand up to his mother. _You can listen while she talks._

 _No way,_ he thinks, horrified. _She’ll grizzle on about how her druggie mother abused her six ways from Sunday._

 _She listened to you,_ the voice whispers. _Now she needs you to do the same for her._

There’s no way to deny _that_. With a silent sigh he sets the guitar aside. “Come on,” he says.

When they are both seated in the living room he says “Talk.”

Sarah shakes her head. “You don’t have to do this.”

“This is not about what I have to do,” he says. “This is about your needing to tell someone about what you remember.”

“Poison, that’s what I remember,” she says. “There are almost no happy memories of her. She hated her kids. The only reason she had us was to keep Dad from leaving her, and the only reason she kept _him_ around was for his money, when he was working.”

_(“So he was a bastard. He was still your father. You’re biologically programmed to have feelings for him.”)_

“All the more reason to talk,” he says.

After a few moments her shoulders slump a little. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath.

What follows is not a torrent of bitter memories or a rant against the injustices of her upbringing. No recriminations, no hate; she just tells him what she remembers, with the simplicity and sadness of a child.

_(“ . . . I don’t care that you didn’t like him. He was your father, and he loved you. The war is over, Greg.”)_

At the end there is a long silence.

“Soup’s probably boiled dry,” Sarah says finally. “Thanks for listening.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Greg says. “You know she didn’t love you.”

“So why am I mourning her?” She looks down. “She was my mother, and now she’s gone.”

 _(“Wilson? . . . My dad’s dead.”)_  

He gets to his feet. “Need to check the soup.”

“Yeah.” Sarah stands up too. “For someone who doesn’t think he’s a friend you do an excellent  job of acting like one,” she says softly. “Thank you.” She turns away. “Share a bowl with me?”

“In a minute.” When she is gone he considers what she’s said.

_(“ . . . I am what I am because of him, for better or worse.”)_

On that remembrance and reminder he follows Sarah into the kitchen.


	14. Chapter 14

_March 8th_

It was already a miserable Monday when James joined the coffee queue in the cafeteria, stainless-steel travel mug in hand. He’d overslept because the alarm hadn’t gone off; as a result he’d gotten on the road later than his usual time and ended up in the very rush-hour jam he’d attempted to avoid. Even worse, somehow he’d forgotten to buy beans the last time he shopped (even though he’d placed them at the top of his list), and now both his kitchen and office coffee-makers sat cold and empty. So here he was, reduced to drinking caramel-colored water for his sins, while he longed for his usual double-strength, Kona blend, blast-o’caffeine treat.

He bought a cinnamon-raisin bagel and cream cheese as compensation for the morning’s events and was about to head upstairs when he spied Chase at a booth with journal in one hand while he ate breakfast with the other. James headed in his direction. He felt his mood lift a bit for the first time that morning. _Finally! He’s been avoiding me. Now I can squeeze some information out of him._

James slid into the booth. Chase frowned at him, clearly unhappy at his presence. He looked tired; there were shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders drooped just a bit.  “Good morning,” he said, but it sounded insincere.

“So, back from the wilds of New York,” James said, and winced inwardly at the too-hearty inflection in his voice. “How was it?” he asked, and tried to sound a bit more normal. Chase gave him a direct look.

“Fine.”

James set aside his exasperation. “Could you be a little more forthcoming?” He removed a bagel half from the plastic wrap, but kept the younger man in his peripheral sight. “How’s House?”

Chase leaned forward. “He’s doing really well. In fact I’d say he’s on his way to full recovery.” Robert’s words held a subtle mockery. “Not what you wanted to hear, is it?”

James paused, plastic knife suspended in mid-air. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t want him to find anything even remotely resembling healing. That means you and Lucas have a common goal.”

“I am NOT working with Lucas!”

Chase straightened. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, you can count me out. I won’t be a part of whatever you two have planned.” He folded the journal and picked up his plate. As he stood he said, “Doctor Goldman knows what you’re doing. She’ll be waiting for your next move. You’re a fool if you make an enemy out of her. She’s smarter and tougher than you are, and she has House on her side. Neither you nor the boy-toy stand a chance.” He gave James an ironic salute. “Cheers,” and he was on his way.

James watched him go, his mind at sixes and sevens. After a few moments he pushed the bagel aside and took out his phone.

Sarah answered on the third ring. “Jim,” she said, her tone neutral. “Chase must have reported in, am I right?”

James was silent for a moment, taken off-guard by this uncharacteristic offensive action. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he said at last. “No one did any reporting in.”

“So you had to go to him.” There was a brief note of amusement in her voice. “Good for Rob.”

“ _Why_ does everyone think I have it in for House?!” he asked, and let his frustration show. “You said it yourself—I’m the one who recommended you to him in the first place! I’m also the only one who came to see him while he was in Mayfield—I helped him get into treatment, if you remember!”

“What would you do if you discovered he’s in full recovery?” Sarah asked softly.

James felt a surge of some strong emotion he couldn’t really name. “Are you saying that’s what’s happened?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you a question,” Sarah said.

“I’d be thrilled,” James snapped. “It’s about time he took responsibility for his actions.”

“So you think this is about choosing drugs and acting out versus willpower and being a responsible adult,” Sarah said. James paused.

“Obviously you don’t,” he said.

“I think everyone in that so-called hospital needs a crash course in Addiction for Dummies, starting with you.” She sounded angry and worse, disappointed.

“I know what addiction is!” he said, loud enough to make a few heads turn. “Danny taught me everything I need to understand—“

“No he didn’t and no you _don’t!_ You have absolutely no clue whatsoever!” Sarah’s voice had risen too. “If you understood it you wouldn’t have enabled to the extent you did!”

“If I hadn’t given him the drugs he would have found another way!” James said. He wanted to bang the table with his fist at her lack of comprehension. “I kept him out of jail, I kept him from hitting rock bottom!”

“There is no rock bottom,” Sarah said after a few moments. She sounded distant. “There’s only free fall. It sickens me that you would condemn someone to that state of existence for your own gain, James.”

James gasped, outraged. “I—I didn’t _condemn_ —I—I—for my own gain, that’s not true! That is not true in the least!”

“Yes it is. You kept Greg right where you wanted him. I’m not saying he didn’t cooperate. People in chronic pain will stick with any plan that gets them what they need, especially if their med supply is unreliable. I’m saying you have an almost pathological desire to fix people because it makes you look like a good guy. You always did, even in college. Greg fits your agenda perfectly. You give him little dribbles of help, just enough to keep him hurting and needing you. Add in all the anger and resentment you feel toward him, everything you won’t admit is there right beneath the surface, and it’s a wonder Greg escaped at all.”

Her words brought his frustration to the boil. “Oh, great. I see how things are. House gets off scot-free on everything because it’s all my fault that’s he’s a mess and has been for years. And by the way, how long have you been calling him Greg? Does Gene know?”

“I never said he gets off scot-free. He has plenty of things to answer for, just like the rest of us. But you should know, Greg House is my friend now as well as my patient,” Sarah said. “If you’re suggesting I’m having an affair with him, I’d say that’s more your style than mine.”

James flinched. “They’re legitimate questions,” he muttered.

“No they’re not. They’re words meant to hurt Greg, Gene and me. Fortunately . . .” She drew in a breath. “Fortunately I’m the only one who heard them.”

“Sare . . .” James closed his eyes. _Dammit._ “I’m sorry.”

“You’re only sorry you made a mistake in showing your hand too early,” Sarah said. “You need help, Jim.”

“I’m going to an analyst twice a month,” he said.

Sarah sighed. “It’s not enough.”

Her answer caught him off-guard. “What?”

“I believe you have a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I also believe it’s getting worse. You can’t see what you’re doing hurts other people to the point of destroying their lives because your addiction—your disease--has blinded you to the consequences of your behavior.”

James felt the world contract around him. It was as if all the air had leaked out of the room. “You—you think—you believe _I’m_ an addict?”

“Yes,” Sarah said quietly.

“How dare you,” he whispered. Fear surged through him like an electric shock. “How dare you accuse me—I’m not—“ He stopped, struggled to focus his thoughts. “I’m not House,” he said.

“You mean you’re not a loser,” Sarah said. “Be honest for once in your life, Jim. Say what you’re really thinking.”

“I don’t—I never said he was a loser!” James wanted to hurl the phone across the room. “I meant I’m not an addict!”

“But House is your definition of an addict,” Sarah said. “He’s a loser. I mean that literally. He’s someone who’s lost control. That scares you, doesn’t it? The thought of losing control.”

“I told you once before not to analyze me,” James said. He fought to keep his voice down.

“I’m not analyzing you. I’m asking you . . .” She paused. “Get help, Jim. Please.”

“You really do believe I’m fucked up,” he said, stunned. “Me, not House.”

“We're all fucked up to some degree, but some of us know it. If you need any assistance I’ll do my best for you,” Sarah said. Her soft voice held immeasurable sadness. “Otherwise, don’t call again, Jim. You’ve done enough harm. I won’t allow you to do more.” And she was gone.

He sat there for a while, watched people come and go as thoughts chased themselves around and around in his head. Finally he got to his feet, folded his uneaten bagel in his napkin—no point in wasting perfectly good food--and headed to his office. After all, he had a schedule to keep, people to see, a job to deal with. _I’ll show her I’m not an addict_ , he thought, and turned his thoughts to work, and the long list of people who waited for his help.


	15. Chapter 15

_March 12th_

Another big day awaits, but this one holds far more positive potential than the one in January.

They are on their way to Newark to pick up Gene. Then they'll head over to one of Reynard's satellite offices in Hoboken. They've been on the road for a couple of hours already, as it will take some time to get there even without weekday rush hour traffic. After the fit for the TENS unit, they'll stay over for a night or two. Greg had suggested Manhattan as a joke, but it's obvious Sarah's considered it, much to his surprise.

"We could use a small vacation after this past week," she'd said. "Let's see what kind of shape Gene's in, but I'd say he'll probably vote yes. We take weekend trips to the Theater District now and then, usually whenever someone has a good package deal. Anyway, it's just a drive across the river from Will's office."

So Greg is stretched out in the front passenger seat with coffee in hand as the new morning lightens the sky. It's peaceful despite the increase in traffic as they get closer to the edges of the city. He brought his iPod with him in case he needs distraction, but Sarah's already got Doctor John on the CD player and besides, he feels the need for some kind of human contact, even if it's just shared space inside a minivan. He glances over at Sarah. She's bundled into her black parka, her curly hair tied back with a ponytail elastic. She seems relaxed, but when she gives him a quick look there is concern in her eyes.

"How y'all holding up?" she asks, and takes her cup of tea from the holder.

"'m fine," he says, but even to his ears he sounds unconvincing.

"If you're really bored you could read to me," she says. Greg sits up a little, intrigued by her request.

"Uh, _duh_ ," he says, heavy on the sarcasm. "You're that desperate to know what's in the owner's manual for this tin can."

"Check the bag behind your seat," she says. He obeys, winces as the seat belt harness digs into his shoulder, and hauls out a book. He looks it over, incredulous.

"You're kidding," he says. " _Beowulf_ . . . this is your idea of entertaining reading. What a nerd."

"Hey, you're the one who gave it to me," she says, and flashes him a quick grin. "Besides, it's the Seamus Heaney translation. It was meant to be read aloud."

Of course he'd known that when he'd hidden it in her desk a week or so ago, but he hadn't expected his gift to end up here. Still, any distraction is better than nothing. With a sigh he opens the book and squints at the words.

"Didn't bring my glasses with me," he says. Sarah digs into a pocket and hands them to him. Greg gives her a disgusted look. "Planning for every contingency. I should have figured as much. You probably have an extra hand-crank flashlight in the glovebox too."

"I like the story," she says. "The words fill your mouth, they feel like silk and thistles on your tongue. Anyway, you're a good reader."

"You don’t know that. You've never heard me recite so much as a Playboy limerick."

"I just know," she says. "Gonna read or not?"

"Nag, nag, nag. Fine, if it'll get you off my back." He opens the book and adjusts his glasses.

"You know, you're kinda cute with those things perched on the end of your nose," Sarah says. Greg sends her a glare.

"Shut up."

"No, for real," she says. "You should have them on hand for future dates. They're guaranteed to get you anything you want."

"Keep it up and the book takes a header out the window," he growls, and she laughs.

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

He hurls a final glare at her before he turns his gaze back to the page. With profound doubt he clears his throat and begins to read, to discover she’s right; the words move together, they bring the old story to life. He can feel them push against his teeth and tongue, shaped by full, tasty vowels and fierce consonants. " _Wrecker of mead-benches,"_ he says, and savors the image.

" _Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes."_ Sarah moves the minivan into the fast lane.

"You're a romantic," he says in accusation.

"I'm Irish," she says, as if that explains everything. When he thinks about it, it does, actually.

"Bloodthirsty colleen."

"What do you expect from someone whose ancestors conducted cattle raids just for fun?" She throws him a glance. "Yours weren't any better."

"Hello . . . illegitimate child here," he says in protest. "I have no idea what my forebears did besides live nasty brutish lives and die young from preventable diseases."

"You know your mother's side is Dutch," Sarah points out. "Just about everyone on the shores of the North Sea share Viking blood from the raids and invasions." She chuckles. "I bet those blue eyes of yours were the best feature of some guy in a dragon boat. Thor Tudball, scourge of many cats! Breaker of mead-beakers!"

He stifles an urge to laugh and summons up his best Tim Conway impression. "Missus-ah huh-Wiggins," he says. Sarah picks up his cue, as he’d known she would. She widens her eyes and chews a wad of imaginary gum, the quintessential bimbette secretary.

"Whaaaaaat?" she drawls. It's too much, he can't help it, he snickers and she laughs outright. It amazes him that she can enjoy a stupid joke when he knows she still mourns her mother's death. Her ability to accept grief as a natural part of existence is beyond his comprehension at times. She should be withdrawn, morose; instead she is involved full measure in everyday life. Even though he found her by the fire in silent grief just the day before, right now she's in the moment and actually happy. He is bewildered by her strength, but secretly glad of it too.

Eventually he begins to read once more and is caught up in the tale of Grendel's claim of ruined Heorot and the arrival of the Geats. " _The leader of the troop unlocked his word-hoard."_ He pauses. "'Word-hoard'. That's classic Tolkien malarkey."

"He would have stolen it without a qualm," Sarah says. "Great image. You can just see this big burly warrior, armed to the teeth, listening to Hrothgar's watchman bluster and threaten and demand answers, and when he finally winds down, the warrior gives him the mission statement. Simple words, no bull. Very John Wayne."

"Hah," House says. "It's confirmed, you're a total romantic," and continues to read.

By the time they stop to put gas in the tank and get something to eat, he feels a little less stressed out. He and Sarah have debated several points in the narrative and ruminated over various delights of the archaic words and style. Of course he knows she's done this to keep him distracted, he's not a complete moron, but she genuinely enjoys the discussion too. Much to his bemusement, so does he. Still, when they are once more on the way, he doesn't pick up the story. Instead he stares out the window, lost in thought.

"What is it?" Sarah's quiet voice pulls him back.

He hesitates. "Forget it. It's stupid."

"Come on, spill." She passes a semi and glances at the GPS, but he knows she will listen.

"I wonder what the people of a thousand years ago would think of us." He settles back into the seat. “We share the same brain size and structure, the same capacity for observation and acquisition of knowledge. They are us and we are them, pretty much.”

"Aside from the technology and more opportunities for education, better health, yeah, that’s true." She is silent for a few moments. "I believe they'd think us . . . weak."

"Continue," he says when she doesn't go on.

"Our culture has problems with the expression of strong or intense emotion of any kind, but especially anger or rage," she says. "We tend to ritualize it in games or stories, or save it for the moment when we can't take any more and end up on top of a water tower with a sharpshooting rifle. Perhaps it happens because people think niceness is some kind of acceptable measure for standard behavior, when it's really the perfect disguise for all sorts of not-so-nice feelings and actions."

"That's a fairly pejorative statement," he says after a moment.

"I get tired of passive-aggressive tomfoolery right quick," she says. The word 'quick' has two syllables: _kwiy-yick._ There is a fierce note in her tone that puts him on alert.

"Did you have that opinion before or after you spoke with Wilson?" he asks.

"Before, during _and_ after." She doesn't resent his curiosity, something he always finds unique. "People who lived millennia ago had the same capacity to reason and feel that we do, that’s true, but they weren't hamstrung by the idea that strong emotions are bad and to be avoided at all costs."

"They developed plenty of codes with fairly narrow definitions of how people should behave," he points out. "But that's beside the point, actually. Wilson really pissed you off. Let me guess. Chase wasn't forthcoming."

"It sounded to me like Rob washed his hands of whatever's going on," Sarah says. "Does that surprise you?"

"Not really. Chase has always known when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em." He gives a mock sigh and pats his chest, above his heart. "My experiment does me proud." He waits a beat. "Bet he’s headed for the spin bin."

"Can't talk about it," Sarah says. Greg nods.

"Figured as much," he says. Eventually he sets the book aside and drifts off into a light doze.

He gets to witness the reunion in the terminal. He'd planned to wait for them in short-term parking, but Sarah had said "Gene will want to see you too," as if it was an obvious conclusion. So he limps along, feels like a fifth wheel as usual, and watches as Sarah runs to her husband with outstretched arms. Gene catches her up and whirls her in a circle before he administers a very thorough kiss. His action incites a scatter of applause in the immediate area. Greg is aware of a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with sentiment. He's always been the one on the outside, alone. Nothing has changed.

_("Greg, if you don't learn how to make yourself more appealing to people, no one will ever want to be your friend. You can be very abrasive, you know. I'm telling you this for your own good, dear.")_

They come toward him now, hands linked. Gene actually seems glad to see him for some reason. "House," he says.

"Gunney," Greg says. "Nice tan." Gene is thinner and he looks tired; still, when he smiles none of that matters for a few moments.

"Thanks."

"No nicknames from now till we get home," Sarah says. Greg knows she dislikes the one he's given her hubby, but that doesn't make it any less truthful. "I say we head for Will's office and get things taken care of, then we find a place to stay." She looks at him. "May I touch you?"

He nods and is surprised when she takes his hand in a firm grip. Gene is on the opposite side, and he holds her other hand. They move forward through the terminal at a casual pace, slow enough to accommodate Greg's limp and also to talk back and forth. Much to his astonishment he has been included in their little family as a matter of course, just like that. He can think of several things to say, jokes about polyamory or big love or a bed to accommodate the three of them, but he keeps silent. It seems like the best course at the moment, and maybe for once his mother had a point.

"I vote for the Saint James, if we want to stay for the weekend," Gene says. "We can get tickets from the concierge and do a play after dinner."

"Tomorrow," Sarah says. "Tonight we're all getting an in-room massage, my treat." She glances at Greg as he opens his mouth, her sea-green eyes bright with humor. "NO."

He assumes what he hopes is a look of wounded innocence. "I don't know what you thought I was going to say, but you just screwed yourself out of a great deal," he says. "I know this bookstore for artists on Tenth Avenue . . ."

"Printed Matter," Sarah says. She actually gives an excited little hop like a five year old. "Yes! We have to go!"

They stroll through the parking garage, trade bits and pieces about favorite places; they argue in amiable fashion over who has the best bagels in midtown, the delights of Central Park and various museums, what's good on Broadway. It's a surprise when they reach the van so quickly.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Sarah asks Gene when he takes the keys. "You must be exhausted."

"You hate driving down here," he says quietly. "I'll manage if we can find some decent coffee."

Sarah puts her hand to his cheek. He turns his head to kiss her fingers. Both gestures are unselfconscious, intimate without being precious; Greg knows from previous experience that they do this sort of thing and don’t care if anyone watches. He feels that tightness in his chest again, a sensation he doesn't care to name—but if he did, it might come close to envy. Without a word he climbs into the bench seat and reclines with legs propped, relaxes his bad leg with a quiet sigh of relief.

Three croissants, two venti lattes, a large black tea and twenty minutes later, they are headed for Hoboken.


	16. Chapter 16

The drive from Newark to Hoboken is accomplished without difficulty. Gene navigates the wilds of north Jersey as if he was born there, a skill any Corridor resident would covet. After the first few minutes Greg relaxes somewhat. They are in capable hands.

"Do you want one of us to go in with you?" Sarah says quietly.

"No," he says, and avoids her gaze. "I don’t need a babysitter."

"I'm sure you don’t," she says. "But you still might want some company." He shakes his head. He doesn't want anyone else to witness his potential humiliation if the unit doesn't work. "Okay. If you change your mind, just say so."

The clinic is located in a renovated neighborhood. It's actually rather charming, but Greg doesn't pay much attention. He's focused on self-preservation. Reynard is in residence when they reach his office, much to Greg's surprise. "You didn't think I'd pass this off to someone else, did you?" The younger man gives him a grin. "No way, man. This is too important."

Greg has to pee in a cup for the drug test, but that's a mere formality. When he is ushered into the exam room he's tied in knots so tight he can barely move. The TENS unit is laid out on a tray beside the table. _This is it,_ he thinks, and struggles to ignore the dread deep in his heart and mind.

"Pull down your jeans and have a seat," Reynard says, and brings over a stepstool so Greg can clamber onto the table.

"I bet you say that to all your sexiest patients." Greg unzips his jeans, tugs them down to his knees and battles the urge to cover his scar with his hand. In the cool fluorescent light it looks even more hideous than usual, the twisted, discolored ridges and sunken surface as prominent as ever.

"Okay if I take a closer look?" Reynard plunks down on a rolling stool and comes over to him, but doesn't begin the examination. Greg realizes the younger man won’t go on until he receives permission.

"Be my guest," he says with a flippancy he doesn't feel, and looks away as Reynard's hands come to rest on his leg. He steels himself against a lot of aggressive pokes and prods, the technique most doctors employ. He even understands why they do it, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Quite a bit of missing muscle," Reynard says quietly. His touch is gentle as he palpates the areas around the incision; he isn’t intrusive, doesn’t cause more discomfort than is necessary. "I can't see how you could be in anything less than major pain with this much loss." He finishes his exam and rolls over to the TENS unit, brings it back with him. "I think the best pattern to start with is one pad in the small of your back, with three arranged below and two above the scar," he says. "Once everything's in place we'll begin with the lowest settings and go from there."

A few minutes later the electrodes are set up. The sticky pads feel strange against his skin, but not unpleasant. Reynard turns on the unit and twiddles a few dials.

"Anything?" he asks. Greg shakes his head. "Okay, let's try this."

It happens five setting changes later. He feels a sort of slow diminution of pain—faint but noticeable. He draws in a startled breath. _Holy shit,_ he thinks. _Did I imagine that?_

"Something happening?" Reynard pauses.

"Yeah—yeah, I think so. A little . . ."

"Let's go up a notch or two."

With each change now the endless keening recedes slowly, transmuted after a time into what seems for all the world like a muscle pull. There are no words. There's still _something_ there, similar to a mild strain from overuse, but it's a far cry from the agony of the intense dentist's-drill sensation he's endured for years.

"Why don't you give it a spin?" Reynard says. Greg slides off the table and carefully pulls up his jeans, makes a slow circuit around the room. The unit itself is small, about the size of a pager; it rides with ease on the waistband of his jeans and the leads trail down his hip, across the small of his back and along the side of his thigh. He can barely feel any of the equipment, it's light and relatively unobtrusive. His anxiety about heavy, awkward bits and pieces disappears. But best of all, there is no cramping, no endless shrill of broken nerves—just a soft ache, as if he'd over-exercised his quadriceps. The limp is non-negotiable, that will never leave him, but it's not such a burden to walk now.

"Hot _damn_ ," Reynard says. "I love it when this happens." He grins like a fool. "How is it? How's it feel?"

"It doesn't," Greg says. A laugh escapes him, short but genuine. "It's—it's hardly there."

"Awesome. Come on," Reynard says. "You need to show Sarah and Gene."

Greg goes out to find the Goldmans perched side by side in anxious silence when he comes into the waiting room. As he approaches Sarah's eyes widen. She watches him walk and begins to smile. "It _works_ ," she says softly. "Oh, it _works_." She gets to her feet, and so does Gene. He surveys Greg's progress with satisfaction.

"Time for a consult," he says. "I think we can safely say your need for my services has just been downgraded somewhat. Congratulations."

The next half hour or so passes by in a blur of talk and owner's manuals, packages with various types of pads, tubes of gel and ace bandages and a gross of nine-volt batteries. It's like sex toys gone legit, but Greg can't even joke about it, he's still in something like shock.

"You'll be tempted to overdo it for the first week or so," Reynard says after everything's been packed up. "So have at it—you will anyway, might as well jump right in. Learn what you can and can't do for now. Mess around, find what works. This unit's designed for a high degree of physical activity. The dials have a snap-down cover and there's a memory function for settings." He offers a wide smile; his dark blue eyes gleam with delight and satisfaction. "I think with the amount of exercise you'll be getting we don't have to worry about further muscle loss, but we can always find you an EMS if necessary." He spreads his hands. "Any questions, any concerns, call me."

"We'll adjust meds over the course of time," Gene says. "I'd imagine your needs will fluctuate for the next few weeks, but things should settle down eventually."

"Okay," Sarah says, "that's enough for now. We can talk about details later." Her tone is gentle but firm. Greg feels a flash of gratitude; he is overwhelmed—in a good way, but it's still all too much at the moment.

They leave the office with Reynard’s promise to check with them later on. "Dinner and a play, it's been too long. I can shuffle things around to make room in my schedule. It'll be my treat. Just let me know when you want to go."

The walk to the minivan is a revelation. It doesn't hurt to take a step. There's no flinch in anticipation of a nasty stab of pain caused by every contraction of his ruined quadriceps. He isn't worried about a spasm and the chance of a fall or locked leg. It is as close to a normal gait as he's had since the ketamine, but this is better somehow, even with the ache that's left. It feels more real. He can't explain it; it makes no sense, but at the moment he doesn't care. It's like he walks on air, both literally and figuratively. The sensation is incredible. He wants to savor it, keep it forever.

"I got us an extended weekend at the Saint James," Gene says once they're on the road. "We're in town through the fifteenth." He glances in the rear view mirror at Greg, smiles a little. "Plenty of time to rest up and do some exploring if you like."

"One thing at a time," Sarah says. "Let's get settled first."

It's a small hotel, the kind they call 'boutique' nowadays—funky inlaid marble floors, lots of polished wood, soft bright colors in the carpets and drapes, a helpful and friendly staff—which makes up for the single ancient elevator and even more antiquated door-key system (there are actual _keys_ that have to be dropped off at the desk when you leave the building, something he hasn't encountered since he was a teenager). The rooms are what can politely be called cozy, but still comfortable and clean, with plenty of cleverly-managed storage and decent amenities. Greg stows his duffle and checks out the bathroom, but doesn't take in much. He is still amazed at the freedom from pain every time he takes a step.

A soft knock sends him to the door. It's Sarah. "May I come in?" she asks quietly. Greg moves aside to allow her entrance. He expects her to talk about the evening's agenda, but instead she takes a seat in a little chair by the window. He perches on the bed and watches her.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm headed over to the deli to get a few things," she said. "It's one door down, if you want to come with me."

"I'm surprised you and the Gunneymeister aren't making up for lost time," he says. Sarah laughs.

"He's out cold, poor guy." She hesitates. "You must be tired yourself."

"If you want to know how I'm feeling, ask," he says. She nods.

"Okay. How are you feeling?"

For answer he gets up and takes a short walk around the room. "That should answer your question." She looks down—not the reaction he'd expected. "What's the matter?" he asks, annoyed and concerned at the same time.

"I'm trying not to be a weenie," she says. He can hear the tremor in her voice. "I'm—I'm so happy for you—"

"Knock it off," he growls, secretly pleased, though he'd never admit it.

"Sorry," she says, and wipes her eyes. "Sorry. Okay. So. You want to go with me or not?"

When they are on the street Greg crooks his arm and waggles it in invitation.

"Just in case the battery dies and I need someone to hold me up," he says. Sarah laughs and puts her hand through to clasp his arm; they brave the busy sidewalk and blustery weather, and walk to the deli together.


	17. Chapter 17

_March 17th_

The Saint Patrick's Day celebration at the firehall is in full swing. It's a well-attended bash—almost everyone in the village is here, having finished off the corned beef, cabbage and colcannon and now progressed to Sarah's excellent apple cake with ginger marmalade, among other delightful goodies. And beer, of course. At least it's not green, but it does have a harp on the label. Still, given the circumstances, that's not too much of a trauma to live with.

Greg sits in a comfortable chair in the corner and watches the pickup band. Sarah plays piano, with Jay Lombardi on guitar and someone he doesn't know with a tin whistle. They're not bad, at least they can play in time and they have plenty of enthusiasm going for them too. At the moment they're in the process of a boisterous version of 'Whiskey in the Jar'.

As he sips his beer Gene comes to sit beside him. He folds his lean body into the chair next to Greg's and watches the proceedings in silence, his expression inscrutable. After a while he says "Did she get out her albums?"

Greg looks at him. "The naked volleyball montage, or scenes from our secret tryst in Atlantic City?"

"No, her Irish albums," Gene says with a sad lack of reaction to provocation. "Black 47, Virgin Prunes, Pogues."

Greg shakes his head. "Nope."

"Damn, so she only inflicts them on me. Oh well. She had a lot going on this year. Maybe next time you'll get the pre-Saint Pat's ordeal." Gene tips his bottle back for a long swallow. "By the way, a trip to AC means she's just flirting with you. All her real boy-toys get a month in Cancun." He flashes Greg a grin, and his dark eyes hold sly amusement. "I've been there twice."

After Gene leaves to corral some toddlers from suicidal leaps off the folding chairs, Greg considers what was said. He tries to absorb the casual assumption that he will be here next March. He doesn't want to acknowledge any faint hope those simple words create; another year at the house probably means he'll still be in treatment. Besides, only a fool would count on anything so ephemeral. But he can't help it. He feels the dangerous warmth of acceptance beckon. He's an idiot to trust it, to give in and savor it, but in a reckless moment he goes ahead and does it anyway, what the hell. If he gets hurt it won't be anything different than what's happened before; if he doesn't, then maybe . . .

"Hey." Sarah drops into the seat next to him. "How's the leg?"

"Still attached," he says. He's played with the TENS settings, amazed that in conjunction with a new med regimen, the pain is still nothing more than a deep mild ache. "If you're here to get me to dance, forget it."

"How about taking over the piano for a couple of songs? I need a break and a ginger beer," she says. Greg stares at her. She glances at him, her expression relaxed and open. "You don't have to," she says after a moment. "Just thought I'd offer."

"Testing the waters," he says. "Seeing if lack of pain turns me into a fluffy bunny."

"You're fine the way you are," she says with a smile. "Most musicians can't resist the chance to ham it up. I thought I'd give you an opportunity to show off a bit."

Maybe it really is the absence of chronic hurt. Maybe it's the beer. Maybe the moon is full and he's got excess water in his brain tissues, but he goes to the piano. It's an old beater of an upright; still, the real ivory keys feel good under his fingers, and it's in pretty decent tune. He tries a few scales up and down the board, gets the feel of the instrument and loosens his hands; then he plays a rousing introduction with the chorus melody in it to see if his fellow musicians will catch the song. It takes a few moments, but Jay nods and starts the verse after Greg vamps a measure or two.

_As I went out one morning, it being the month of May_

_A farmer and his daughter I spied along me way_

_And the daughter sat down calmly to the milking of her cow_

_Saying 'I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now'_

Others join in the chorus; there is laughter and talk mingled with the music as people drift closer to the little group of players.

_The humour is on me now, oh, the humour is on me now,_

_I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now!_

_Be quiet you foolish daughter, and hold your silly tongue,_

_You're better free and single, and be happy when you're young,_

_But the daughter shook her shoulders as she milked her patient cow,_

_Saying 'I will and I must get married, for the humour is on me now!'_

The tin whistle player takes over the verse. He has a tenor voice, true and fine, and as Irish as the harp on the bottles of beer. Greg rolls his eyes but just plays.

' _Sure who are you to turn to me, that married young yourself_

_and took my darling mother from off the single shelf?'_

_Sha, daughter dear go aisy, and milk your patient cow_

_for a man may have his humour but the humour is off me now!_

Someone comes up behind Greg—Sarah, with ginger beer in hand. He can just see her out of the corner of his eye. Her fair face is flushed and she sings along, her clear bright alto filled with enjoyment. When her hand comes to rest on his shoulder it feels warm and gentle; for once he doesn't flinch away. He knows she won't hurt him.

' _Well, indeed I'll tell my mother the awful things you say,_

_Indeed I'll tell my mother this very blessed day!'_

_Sha, daughter, won't you have a heart, you'll start a fearful row_

' _So I will unless I marry for the humour is on me now!'_

The crowd has the chorus down by this point and they all join in. Greg can hear Roz somewhere behind him, horribly off-key but in a great mood by the sound of it.

_Sha, if you must be married will you tell me who's the man?_

_And quickly she did answer: 'There's Liam, Pat, and Sean_

_A carpenter, a tailor, and a man to milk the cow_

_For I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now!'_

Gene's strong baritone joins in on the chorus, and someone picks up a second guitar to strum along. Greg catches a glimpse of Chelsea Butterman cradled in her father's arms with her head on his shoulder, fast asleep despite the music and noise.

_Well, if you must be married will you tell me what you'll do?_

_'Sure and I will,' the daughter said, 'the same as ma and you,_

_I'll be mistress of my dairy and my butter and my cow . . .'_

_and your husband too, I'll venture, for the humour is on you now_

The musicians know the final verse and Greg joins them to make the rafters ring. It's corny and stupid and he can't help but admit this is great fun, to give in to the simple delight of some silly, harmless good times.

_So, at last the daughter married and she married well-to-do_

_And she loved her darling husband for a month, a year or two_

_but Sean was all a tyrant and she quickly rued her vow,_

_Saying 'I'm sorry I ever got married for the humour is off me now!'_

_Oh the humour is off me now, oh, the humour is off me now,_

_I'm sorry I ever got married for the humour is off me now!_

 

"Were you thinking of Jim when you chose that song?" Sarah asks some time later, when they are at home in front of the fire, tired but content. Gene wanders in from the kitchen. He bears a plate with a massive chunk of apple cake and ginger marmalade. He sits next to Sarah, picks up the cake with his fingers and takes a huge bite off the top of the slice.

"Why would I . . ." Greg sits up a little. "He’s with someone."

"Samantha," Sarah says. "She's moved in with him. He sent me a text message."

Greg is silent. The comfortable glow of the evening's enjoyment fades in the face of this news. _He didn't tell me._

"Remember he's been asked not to call here," Sarah says. Gene finishes off the cake and gets to his feet.

"Stop being so admirably discreet. You don't have to leave," Greg says. Gene licks his thumb.

"I'm still getting used to sleeping in a real bed," he says. "Good night," and he is gone, headed soft-footed into the kitchen and then upstairs.

"Wilson has access to my cell phone," Greg says when he and Sarah are alone. The pain is there now, it waits patiently in the shadows, as always. In reflex he rubs his thigh and stops when he feels the pads under his fingers. _He didn't call me_ , he thinks. _He's involved in trashing my treatment, but somehow this feels worse. I didn't expect it._

"Greg," Sarah says quietly. He won't look at her. "You may find that without your physical pain to distract you, other, older pain will come up." A flash of something—fear, he thinks—no, it's more akin to terror--goes through him. His gut tightens hard. "It gets easier. Like telling me about the voices. It's difficult at first because the pain scares you. But it does get better. You can talk to me about anything. I'm here to listen and to help in any way I can, whenever you need me. Remember that."

Later, as he lies in bed, in the dark, his thigh a soft flutter of ache he can easily ignore, he takes the hurt Wilson probably tried to inflict with this indirect method—typical of him, so it’s likely true--and inspects it with caution. _Why do this? And why with Sam, of all people? According to him she was a stone-cold, emotion-robbing, soul-stealing bitch. How did they meet? Couldn't have been by chance. She found him somehow, got his attention, told him what he wanted to hear . . . now they're shacked up. _A new thought enters his mind. _They're going to get married. It's exactly the kind of thing Wilson would do. Something impulsive, something to please her . . . someone to fill the emptiness now that I'm not there._ He wasn't the only one without close friends. Wilson might be able to count Cuddy, but that was more about work and the need to schmooze the boss than anything else, whether either party wanted to admit it or not.

 _He didn't call me. He doesn't need me._ Greg waits for the pain to shoot up his leg and into his head, but instead he feels an odd ache in his chest. It is small but persistent, and sharp. For a few moments he wonders if it isn't angina or even an incipient coronary, but eventually reason kicks in. _So this is what Sarah meant._ Trite and stupid as it sounds, this is heartache. Not that he hasn't ever felt it before, but it wasn't like this. In the past he'd been able to bury it behind other things. Now it's out in the open; it shivers like a naked little boy curled up in a pile of leaves under a cold, barren moon. He doesn't like it much. In fact he feels like he wants to cry; he's surrounded by sorrow and bewilderment and to his horror, a growing anger.

 _I can't be angry with them,_ he thinks in a murky sort of panic. _If I let myself get mad, if I resent them, I'll lose them forever, just like I lost Stacy . . . like I might have lost Mom._ The rational part of him knows this line of logic is utter horseshit, but still the idea overwhelms, terrifies him. He can't wrap his mind around it; it looms over everything, sends him into a cold sweat every time he tries to puzzle it out.

Half an hour later he knocks on Sarah and Gene's bedroom door, embarrassed at this action, but in need of it too. After a few moments Sarah comes out, bundled in her old bathrobe, and pulls the door shut behind her, then goes downstairs. Greg follows her, ashamed of his impulse to wake her and talk. She chooses a chair by the banked fire and waits for him to sit down opposite her before she speaks. Her soft voice is calm, reassures him without condescension, though she looks tired and some of her hair has escaped its braid in a riot of curls. "It's okay, Greg. I'm listening."

He looks at the floor, thumps his cane softly on the carpet as he picks it up and lets it drop. He wants to talk, but he's afraid if he does everything will spill out and he'll lose control.

"Take your time. I know this can be tough." There is no unctuous undertone, no false attempt to soothe him; she is matter of fact and simple, two things he usually finds of comfort. For answer he rises and prowls around the room, ends up by the fireplace. To tell her what he feels is a high wall he can't scale. Besides, even if he could he's not sure what's on the other side. He rubs his thigh and is astonished when a desire to rip off the electrodes surges through him. He fingers one, tempted to follow his impulse and at the same time ashamed to even consider it.

"That kind of pain is easy," Sarah says quietly. "You can numb it with drugs or alcohol, and it takes care of the other hurt you're feeling too. But it only works for a little while, and it doesn't treat the underlying cause. It's palliative."

"I know that!" he snaps. "Why do you think I went through everything at Mayfield and here too? Just for the hell of it?"

"Why did you do it?" Sarah asks. He glares at her.

"Stupid question. My actions are self-explanatory."

"Tell me anyway," she says. He doesn't answer her, unable to speak about what drove him to such a desperate decision. "Do you remember what you said to me, after your overdose?" Sarah asks finally. "You said you didn't want to hurt any more. I think that's why you came to therapy. If that's true, then talking with me about what hurts will help. I promise you, it will."

He stares into the dying fire as silence settles over them. "All of them," he says, "everyone . . . they . . . I . . ." and he cannot go on. The pain rises, chokes off his words, sits in his chest like an unexploded bomb. He leans his forehead against the mantelpiece and watches the embers blur into a single fiery mass. He blinks, tries to send his tears back to their source. _I won't cry over this,_ he tells himself. _I won't let them down by being weak. I can't._

"What about everyone?" Sarah's tone is gentle. Greg shakes his head. He cannot go further than this, he knows it. To do so is to risk a fall, no sense in attempt to scale that impossibly high wall.

After a time he hears Sarah get up. He flinches, waits for her to vent her anger at this pointless effort. Instead she comes to stand next to him. "It's all right," she says. "You've done enough for now. Go to bed, get some rest. We can talk tomorrow, if you like."

He turns his head to look at her. "I _can't_ ," he whispers, and knows she will understand what he's saying.

"Not right now. But maybe in the morning or after supper, or the next day, or the next," she says. "This is not a linear process or anything on a schedule, Greg. It happens how it happens. You have all the time you need to do this, and you do it in your own way." She falls silent a moment. "May I touch you?"

He gives a reluctant nod. Her hand comes to rest on his arm, that butterfly-light contact he's come to know well and maybe even like. "You've made tremendous progress since you came to treatment. You should be proud, very proud. I know I am." The emotion in her words loosens something inside him, some sense of inadequacy or guilt, he's not sure what it is and he doesn't care. He just wants it gone.

"Proud of what?" he snarls. "Losing my job, ending up in the nuthouse, overdosing on narcotics . . . a guaranteed pathway to success, absolutely."

_("You always were a fuckup, Greg. You always will be, far as I can tell. Good luck with medical school. I feel sorry for anyone who ends up as your patient. Better hope whoever hires you has a damn fine malpractice lawyer.")_

"That's your father talking," Sarah says. "He was full of it. I'm the one who went to school and took all those psychology courses, not him, and I say you've worked hard to recover your sanity and sobriety. Not many people would have the strength and the courage to do what you've done. So yes, I'm proud of you. As for the rest . . ." She steps forward and gives him a soft hug from behind. Her slender arms hold him as if he's a prized possession; it's an incredible feeling, to be cherished whether he wants it or not. "We'll work on it tomorrow, if you like. Good night."

After she has gone upstairs he sits in a chair by the fire, struggles to consider what she's said. He's way beyond tired now and his heart still aches; his head is a mass of contradictions, and it seems like the happiness he found earlier in the evening happened a thousand years ago. A part of him longs for the easy equation of drugs, alcohol, numbness; he'll probably always have that desire in the back of his mind, hell, even in the front of it. But another, larger part of him wants the pain gone, no matter what he has to do to make it happen. _Enough_ , he thinks at last. _I'm tired of this. Just . . . enough._

When he goes to bed finally, it is to dream of an ancient wall as it meanders over a forested hill, and his hands stained with his own blood and smears of earth and moss as he struggles to remove the sharp-edged fieldstones, one by one.

_'The Humor Is On Me Now,' lyrics and music by Richard Hayward_


End file.
